


A Tale Of Starry Nights

by carolinelamb



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alpha!Clint, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics with Omegaverse-like Jotunn sexuality, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Bestiality, Body Image, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gangbang, Gratuituous heat-sex, Id Fic, Intersexed!Loki, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Menstruation, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Multi, Omega Verse, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Slave Loki, Trauma, Violence, Weight Issues, omega!Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 117,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinelamb/pseuds/carolinelamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Earth and Asgard have no concept about alphas, omegas and heat cycles, Loki has to accept that, despite Odin's concealing magic, he is still a Jotun and an omega, who goes into heat.</p><p>As a punishment for his crimes Loki is deprived of his magic and sent to earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Mexico

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? Please read the tags :)
> 
> A big thank you to the brilliant **Rex Luscus** for beta-ing! She slayed a many errant commas and is responsible for this fic being readable. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Big love and immense gratitude to my other lovely beta **[Roo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoozetteR/pseuds/RoozetteR)**! 
> 
> Although I have already two wonderful and diligent betas I'd be grateful for more, so I don't have to burden these two lovely lasses _every_ week! Please comment here or send me a PM to carolinelamb on LJ/IJ or DW! I'd love you forever!

The first time it happens is in that improvised SHIELD camp in the dried-out, red midgardian desert after glimpsing _that man_. Loki sees him perched on one of the corridors that go around the tent construction. He seems still, lost in thought, but at a sudden movement from one of the agents three floors deeper, he jerks into motion, raises his arm, pulls himself up, and aims a medieval looking bow trained at the man. 

The agent apologises, calling up to him, and the man lowers his bow. 

He is as fast and agile as an Asgardian, Loki notices, moving with the grace of a wild beast. 

Later, when Loki comes to try lift Mjölnir, the man jumps gracefully from one plank to the other, balancing with ease, although he looks compact and somewhat stocky–not light or flexible at all. And yet he does not fall. 

For a moment the man looks down, seems to look at him with narrowed eyes and Loki, amused, stays still. He looks back at him. Then the man shakes his head, frowning, and turns away to climb up a ladder, even higher, with inhuman grace.

It's that dry heat, the strange-smelling desert wind, the different air, he thinks. His magic must have failed him for a brief moment, allowed him for a split second to be visible to human eyes. 

(It happens sometimes, but most people think him a mirage or a hallucination. The humans on Midgard have killed off their gods a long time ago, with the noise of their greedy, silly hearts.)

Or maybe he just imagined it, and the man was only staring into nothingness, exhausted.

Loki feels it the moment he lets go of Mjölnir. 

It's like the prick of a needle, tiny, not even an itch, but doubtlessly _there_. At first Loki can shake it off. He inhales. Exhales. Then he feels something warm spreading underneath his scalp, like his servants pouring the aromatic rose oil over his forehead when he is taking his bath. 

He stills.

He feels the palm of a ghostly hand stroke his spine from neck to tailbone, and he nearly arches into it. It's pleasurable and warm and firm.

For a moment he loses tracks of his thoughts, just stands there like a fool, staring blindly into empty space. Men in white coats and black suits hurry around him, busying themselves with computers and tracking software, trying to identify that piece of unknown metal in their midst.

Heat creeps up his legs. He feels empty, bereft, and he realises that he has begun to shiver. The palms of his hands are slick with sweat, his usually pale wrists flushed and he is hard. 

The room around him begins to spin around its own axis, and his ears fill with static noise, the sound of his blood rushing through his veins.

Before he can sink to his knees and tear his clothes from him to take himself in hand, he manages to stumble outside. It's better outside, and he can breathe again.

He calls for Heimdall, who opens the Bifrost for him, albeit with thinly concealed hatred. 

(Heimdall must always have known what he is, no? Or could Odin disguise him that well, that even Heimdall's all-seeing eyes were deceived?)

He conjures his steed and mounts it, without even speaking a word to Heimdall. The ride is torturous, the vibrations on the horse's back seeming to liquify his limbs. They start to jerk uncontrollably and he is grinding himself down on the horse’s back, drawing out that dry bit of friction. 

He has to fend off the intense desire to dismount the horse and let himself be fucked by it. His hands grip the reins tightly.

As if the horse can feel his state, it bucks and neighs and yanks at the reins.

Arriving at the palace, he doesn't do as he usually does: to bring the horse to the stable to take care of it but instead pushes the reins into a hapless stable boy's hands and hurries inside. The sounds around him melt into a maddening cacophony and he can't discern any words. Maybe the hum of his own blood is too loud.

A servant approaches to help him out of his outer garments, hands raised to take off the heavy metal and embroidered leather, but Loki only hisses tonelessly at him, and forces himself to move towards his chambers.

When he looks back, he sees the same servant staring hungrily at him, his mouth slightly open. Insolent creature. Loki will have him flogged the next morning.

Every step is sweet torture. He feels his cock dripping, straining against the rough fabric of his trousers. His back is drenched in sweat, and he knows he must look crazed.

Finally he is in his chambers, and he leans against the closing doors, sliding down to the floor. He breathes in, gulps air greedily like a drowning man, his head thrown back, then tears his clothes off, shoves his trousers down, toes off his boots and immediately spreads his legs, bucking his hips into the air. 

His hand on his cock feels so good, and after tugging once, maybe twice, he arches up as white blindness pulls him up into his orgasm.

He is still hard. And … there is something else. 

It feels similar to when he works his magic to change his shape, only now he did not call it. There is something twisting inside of him. He tries spell after spell to halt whatever is happening to him, but the odd feeling persists.

Without much forewarning he feels as if his body is being torn apart, and for a moment he nearly screams, then suddenly the pain is gone and a re-newed, powerful wave of lust washes over him. Bewildered, he remains lying on the cool tiles of his floor.

His body feels different. He feels different between his legs. Carefully, and full of dread, he lets his fingers wander down, search behind his cock, where he feels something throbbing. His testicles have always been internal, something known only by his mother, who bathed him as a child, and his closest servants but instead of smooth skin behind his cock there is something wet and soft. 

A slit, folds. An entrance.

He has turned himself into a woman many times in the past, sometimes for a prank, and sometimes to whore himself out in the streets when he was bored and wanton, but it had always been a willing act, requiring spells, potions and quite a substantial amount of...magic. 

He has never transformed into a woman _accidentally_. His panicked attempts to turn himself back are fruitless. His magic simply does not recognise the state he is in.

With shaking fingers he summons a mirror and looks at himself. After a while he cries out in anguish and throws the mirror against the wall, where it splinters.

He is going into heat.

In mindless fury he sends a a chair flying through the room, then his heavy, black desk.

Since his not-father told him, he has read and studied the Jotunns and he _knows_ , only he doesn't understand why this is happening _now_ of all times. It's true that he is at the perfect age for his first heat, but it's usually triggered by the presence of a suitable, fitting mate.

He hasn't been around Jotunns lately, and he is sure that no Jotunn was on Midgard. Would his mate not be Jotunn? 

That _thing_ between his legs is pulsing with need, wet and swollen. His cock is leaking and red and with helpless anguish he takes himself in hand. With his right hand he grips his cock, slicks it with his own come. Then with the other hand he begins to explore himself. First he only feels irritation and a faint sensation like tickling, then his fingers find a little nub in the centre and when he presses it, he gasps. The pleasure is overwhelming, dangerously sweet.

One fingers slips into his entrance and is gripped greedily. Loki moans. It is too much, the finger in his cunt, the pressure of his hand on that nub, the hand on his cock, it feels so unbearably, devastatingly good. 

Loki instinctively spreads his legs further, even lifts them up, exposing himself, and when he pushes in again, he can't suppress a hoarse cry.

So good, so sweet, so good. 

So good … but not enough, never enough. 

Even through his orgasms Loki is mournful, longing, his newly formed cunt clenching and grasping for something his own fingers can't give him.

It doesn't stop; it comes in waves and waves until he is wrecked by the end, his hand soaking wet, his stomach and chest filthy with his own come.

Exhausted, he curls on the floor and finally falls asleep, his entire body still twitching.

Eventually the heat subsides. Loki is glad he doesn't go mad. 

There were moments where he felt dangerously close to losing his mind. When his senses were flooded with _wantneedwantdesire_ , and he could barely breathe, he felt his usually organised, logical mind dissolve, powerless against his need for release.

In the following days he learns new spells and hastily applies them, before a new wave can grip him. 

The spells make him restless and fill his mind with a low, dissonant sound, but he can't function without them, not yet at least. His magic suffers too. Magic used to flow effortlessly from his fingertips and do his bidding, but now it's unreliable and weak, and at times outright rebellious, protesting. Madness pools in the corners of his mind.

He curses Odin, over and over.

Slowly the sensations abate. He exercises a lot of self control, he meditates for hours, he consults dark forces, he even flagellates himself with enchanted thorny whips from that wretched Karnilla. The welcome side-effect of his efforts to battle his heat is that he gains more insight into various forms of magic, learns even to brew potions, a craft he had neglected before, and studies books that mainly concern themselves with spells that teach him about the powers of his own body and blood and heart.

Before the heat, he used magic as a toy, or as a weapon, like children use wooden swords. He channelled the force, gave it some focus, fed it mostly with anger or malicious intent, and that was about it. As a boy he never bothered to fine-tune his magic the way a lot of women did, because he thought it was beneath him. He concentrated his efforts on power and blunt force instead. 

Now he realises how much there is to gain from ancient knowledge.

He learns that one of the reasons he is so slight and slender, unlike the massive, force-of-nature Thor, is that Odin's spell that keeps him in his Aesir shell depletes his strength. The entire body is weakened with the strain of keeping the spell up. Now it is too late to reverse things. Even if he were to cancel Odin's magic and wear his Jotunn skin, he wouldn't grow stronger. His bones would not gain more mass or density, nor would his physical strength improve.

Magic is all he has left now.


	2. Arrival

He lets go.

He falls and falls and falls. 

He falls through the endless night.

Surrounded by the multi-coloured splinters of the Bifrost, he thinks back of that time when he fell into a frozen pond through a crack in the ice. 

They had been skating, he and Thor, and despite the warnings of their servants and caretakers, had skated further and further away from the shore, until the ice turned black and they could see the soft sluggish movement from the water underneath. 

_The trick was to keep moving, and they raced over the ice, enjoying the sounds the ice made when it cracked underneath their feet, and the sharp sound of their skates, scraping over the ice._

_Loki was faster than his heavier brother, barely touching the ground beneath him, and he cherished the cold wind against his cheeks, reddening them. The mad chase made him giddy. Feeling he was well ahead he made an elegant turn, to mock Thor, who was behind him, when he saw it; the flicker of a face, a pale, beautiful face in the black water underneath, like a white rose unfurling, swimming up to the clear, frozen surface._

_A mermaid, a child of the water, as his mother had once told him about. It was a rare creature, and almost never seen in Asgard. Loki had only heard of the mer people because his teachers had mentioned them. They knew stronger magic than the strongest witches of the Nine Realms but had vanished many years ago._

_Excited he sank to his knees._

_"Come back," he begged. He pressed his palms flat against the ice, sweeping ice crystals._

_Then suddenly he heard another crack, his brother calling out, and then the sounds of skates, coming closer and closer, and then he found himself in the water, looking up through the translucent ice._

_He thought, how deceptively serene and still the pond had looked from above, and how powerful and greedy it was. Already the undercurrent pulled him away from the thinner ice and the crack he had fallen through, further away where the ice grew thick and impenetrable._

_He sank into the dark water, unafraid, his heavy clothes drawing him down further and further. He heard sirens laughing, luring him deeper. The water was like a caress, like silk. With wonder he looked around. How slow and graceful was everything under water._

_He didn't mind falling. He didn't mind the dizziness of his oxygen-deprived brain._

_He didn't mind dying._

_He thought he wouldn't mind having an eternity of this: simply floating gently downwards._

_Then more air was pressed out of his lungs as Thor's strong arms embraced him, and they moved upwards again, Thor kicking the water underneath him, pulling them against the light. He remained limp throughout, gazing with wonder at the passing beauty of the underwater world._

_"Don't you see?" he wanted to ask Thor, whose face was tilted upwards, blind to the surrounding beauty._

_Through the white air bubbles Loki saw the light of the winter day coming closer again. Something inside him dreaded it. Thor, already strong like a horse in his young days, broke through the thick ice plates in the middle of the pond, then swam his way to the shore, his breath heavy white puffs, the eyes steel coloured with determination._

_The crackling of the ice plates sounded eery, the popping and bursting as if it came from directly underneath them, the groaning of slates moving together, being pushed against each other through the movement of the water._

_Thor moved steadily, holding Loki effortlessly with one arm, and Loki could hear his heart beat, strong and reliable like a mechanical hammer._

_Once they managed to get to the shore, Thor pulled him out, cradled him against his chest._

_"I told you not to go too far! I told you to wait for me!" he cried over and over again. He shook Loki, and Loki did not understand this anger, this ire. It was confusing to see his ever-cheerful brother like this; the distorted features, the dark eyes, the grief._

_Loki saw how his large, strong brother trembled like a leaf, teeth chattering while he himself was merely soaked. He did not feel cold. Before he could say something, the servants were upon them, covering them with blankets and chiding them. Thor looked at him then, with wonder in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to ask, but then for a reason Loki didn't understand, remained silent._

_During their ride back, Loki lent him his blanket and coat and Thor took it, still shivering._

_Shortly before they entered the hall, knowing they would have to face Odin's wrath for their carelessness, Thor held Loki back, "Why did you not swim? Did you want to die?"_

_Loki shook his head. "I had never seen such beauty before," he tried to explain, "I … forgot."_

_Thor's gaze was strangely hard. "Do not ever do that again."_

The stars sing to him, but he cannot understand their song. He might have been falling for a thousand years, or for the briefest of moments, he doesn't know. Time stretches, then pulls itself together. 

He might wake up, rouse from his slumber, and find he only shut his eyes for a second.

He dreams of death and blood, he dreams the end and the beginning of the universe. The dead planets and frozen stars whisper secrets to him, enter his mind in ancient languages. Ghosts weave their rotten limbs around him and he clutches at them. 

His body dissolves, and he is nothing more than a lost spirit, a dying soul. Everything falls away from him.

Is that not what he wanted when he let go? To erase his existence, his being?

* * *

When he awakens he is chained and naked. He has no magic left. Everything inside him is shattered. He doesn't remember who he is. He's nothing, that's what he knows.

He is not a king anymore, not a prince, not a man even. His masters tell him he is a slave.

He is beaten, forced to crawl, has to sleep in the stables. They have no use for him, weak as he is, and decide to kill him, but then he goes into heat and they realise, they can use him like a whore. He'd be too injured and too weak to have prevented it with his magic, but since he has no memory of what or who he was, it doesn't even occur to him to be ashamed of his lust.

They cheerfully train him to perform. They do unspeakable things to him, and the biggest humiliation is that Loki is gladly partaking, offering himself desperately, even begging them. He is nothing but a piece of flesh, there to be taken, grateful for being used. They find him disgusting and ugly, like a maggot, crawling and writhing. As he learns to worship their bodies and what they can give to him, sexual ecstasy that leaves him trembling for hours, he agrees with them. 

They call themselves Chitauri, and he learns of what they are, before he learns of what he is. (Dog, they call him.)

They teach him to beg for pain, as they always give him pain before they allow him to fuck himself with his fingers. He obeys them like a dog obeys his owner, regardless of how often he is beaten. 

There is a certain peacefulness in this existence. He exists to please. It's life. He clings to it, day for day. 

He understands it amuses his owners to make him do things publicly; drink his own piss, let himself be fucked, then lap up his own come and he is glad that they are amused, as it means they will indulge him, allow him to relieve himself, and not torture him, but he doesn't understand.

And then, one day they find out who he really is, even before he understands it.

They piece together that he is a prince, and that there is a potential for magic in him, and what powers he can harness. They fill him with their own magic. Other vessels would have shattered and only left behind a mindless shell, but Loki is resistant, a stubborn survivor. Whatever foul, toxic magic they feed him, he holds it, uses it, _thrives_ on it. 

The Chitauri in their simplicity respect things they cannot kill and he is fed more power and more magic, and instead of a slave he is being shaped into a tool. They use him as a killer, as a mercenary. 

With his new learnings, he regains his memories. Step for step he relearns who he is, and the recognition of what he has allowed himself to become, fills him with madness and black despair. He screams for hours, remembering how he begged for their touch. 

The Chitauri leader is amused when he finds out that Loki uses a substantial amount of magic to suppress his heats, once he is able to. He'll fuck him anyway, so why not let himself enjoy it?

Loki doesn't answer, because they both know why. Of course the leader demonstrates his power by keeping Loki as his personal slave and fuck toy, but he doesn't force him to go into heat. 

He tells Loki is worthy of becoming a soldier in his army, offers him a deal. 

"We can re-program you, reach into the very depth of your being and change your desires," he says, "remove the parts of yourself you despise."

Loki is intrigued. "What do you want in return?"

The leader takes pleasure in fucking him, more than he did when Loki had no idea who he was. He taunts him, and Loki gritting his teeth, endures it. At the end he receives a promise: He'll deliver Midgard and the tesseract to him and he'll be relieved from this wretched heat as a reward.

Loki will again belong to himself.

Later, when he prepares to be sent to Midgard, he is drenched with foreign magic to the gills. He weaves every spell around him he can find, and the many spells and enchantments form a thick, as he thinks, impenetrable layer of protection from his Jotunn nature. 

His spells also increase his strength in the battlefield, and the leader acknowledges that Loki can fight like one of them, that his use of magic is extraordinary.

He feels neither pain nor pleasure. The armour he wears is also enchanted to protect him, to help heal wounds faster, but it also helps to numb his skin. 

He can only be at peace with himself when he feels nothing at all. Soon enough he'll be free, he tells himself. For now the draining, sickening Chitauri magic and the armour will suffice.

And yet the very moment he arrives on Midgard, awakes after a long and perilous journey, the _very_ moment his being solidifies into human flesh and tissue, overwhelming hunger and desolate longing are clawing and tearing their way out from deep inside his core.

For one terrible, insane moment he forgets about _everything_ , about his past, his task, his purpose. None of it matters. All he knows is that _pull_. All he knows is that sweet desire.

His magic is falling away from him, like worthless tatters, and underneath his heavy metal and leather armour he is left naked, vulnerable, wanting.


	3. Put A Spell On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to the adorable **[Rex Luscus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus)**! I changed some bits after she beta'ed it, so all mistakes you encounter, are mine.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and your comments! I really do hope, that you won't end up regretting giving me those kudos! 
> 
> (Gathers kudos greedily to chest :D )
> 
> On this occasion I'd also like to direct your attention to the "Rape" warning/tag. Please proceed with care.
> 
> * * *

Midgard almost instantly takes its toll on his magic and his borrowed powers. Everything chafes and itches. The beast inside him wants to be released. He feels like he is suffocating. Loki is taken by surprise by the rebellion his body is staging against his magic.

(Later, when things have taken their course, Loki will attribute it to this moment of distraction.) 

He acts in a trance, barely aware of his surroundings. 

The short struggles which end deadly for the involved humans exhaust him more than they should. The scepter’s poisonous magic is flooding his senses and emits a greedy hum. 

Before another wave of want can hit him, he applies another spell, tapping into the scepter’s force. He’ll identify the source of the disturbance later he decides. For now he needs to gather his forces and get out of the SHIELD head quarter, go into hiding and regain his strength.

The noise of Loki's own heat is overwhelming, and he has to constantly chant his spells in his mind, so that he never relaxes the hold of his magic. The moment he turns his attention to other things, his body begins to crave, and he can't have that.

Another shiver goes through him, and he quickly turns away to distract himself by taunting SHIELD's director, Nick Fury. 

He is grateful for the cold night air of the desert, the smell of dust and concrete, of rubber tires, metal and oil nearly overwhelming. While one of the humans is driving, he aims his scepter for Fury but misses him, then watches as the helicopter crashes and Fury escapes. He cannot do anything, not only because they are moving too fast, but because he can't focus. Everything is a blur, too much static, too much noise. 

He realizes he is breathing with his mouth open, panting. His body is pulsing underneath his armor.

No, he tells himself. He won't allow this. He won't let it happen.

He concludes he might simply be exhausted. No wonder his spells fail to keep the heat at bay, this shameful lust and longing between his legs that crawls up his spine and curls in his belly, this heavy-hearted feeling of need. He is drained, he is shattered.

Finally, he is deep, deep underground, and he nearly feels safe. He breathes a sigh of relief and walks faster. 

The archer is far in the back, overseeing the safe transport of the delicate instruments, securing the exits, and ruthlessly eliminating unwanted witnesses and anyone they don't need. That coldblooded ability to kill: it's only partly Loki's doing. One part of Barton might be subdued and silenced, but another part is gladly awake, burning bright like a red flame.

It's not the act of killing though that ignites Barton, but the knowledge that he is serving his master. True, everyone who is under his scepter's spell wants to serve; none of them are mere shells or mindless puppets.

They all feel their purpose. They are eager to work, create, build. They go out of their way to contribute. The soldiers plan missions and secure the base, the computer scientists hack the enemy’s firewalls, the scientists research. If anything his scepter didn't empty them: it woke them from a long, crippling slumber, a comatose existence. They are not merely ambling towards death any longer. 

They are fulfilling their potential.

All of them, even Selvig, and especially Barton, were good employees in their former (now unimportant) lives, but in the back of their minds, deep down, they were filled with doubt and despair. Each of them, aware of the clock ticking, feared in the end that they would not matter and if anyone can understand this, it's Loki.

What Loki gives them is the mercy of servitude: the secure knowledge that they're contributing to greatness, not slaving away in mediocrity.

Maybe Barton is not quite like them. Loki can still feel him, an uncomfortable presence linked to his mind by the spell. The man is like a steel sword in his hand: deadly and precise, unfailing and faithful, but if he is not careful in the wielding of it, it'll cut him too.

Late at night, they have a meeting: Selvig and three fellow scientists, all under his thrall. The color of their eyes soothes him. It reminds him of his power over them.

Selvig begins to ramble, and is barely reined in by his colleagues, who are captivated. Loki understands that on Midgard, Selvig is a visionary, a genius. Even Loki can't suppress a tired smile, because Selvig seems so genuinely _happy_. He must be relieved to be freed from all these moral imperatives society placed upon him. Selvig is in awe of this universe, of the mysteries unveiled, and he doesn't care about the ramifications: for example, how utterly insignificant his little planet truly becomes when compared to the wonders of the Nine Realms, the people of Asgard and the reality of Yggdrasil. This insight doesn't shatter Selvig, as if he doesn't quite see himself as part of the pitiful human race. 

Bone-deep exhaustion is settling in Loki’s bones. Since leaving the SHIELD HQ he has not had time to truly recover. He is feverish and hyperactive, employing more strength than he should to be able to think clearly. In a few days when they have secured the place, Selvig can, with Loki’s guidance, activate the tesseract and find a way to open the portal, and then he can rest for a while.

"We need to discuss security measures," a voice near him says, and in the very same moment, Loki's mouth goes dry, as if he had been walking for days in the desert. The large room shrinks into itself, the walls are too close. His armor is suffocating him.

His heart begins to race, and gasping he falls forward.

A man catches him, and he nearly whines with pleasure. These hands. He needs to feel them on his heated skin. He wants to press his face into them. His own hands are clawing at the table, crumpling the blueprints, technical drawings and operation plans in front of him.

"Sir," the man asks, "are you all right?"

The wave of intense desire simply rolls over the wall of magic he erected around himself, seeps through his spells as if they're nothing. His heat melts every resistance left in him.

Loki summons all his strength to turn his head. He can feel his Jotun nature brimming with anticipation. His alpha. So close. He can smell him.

For some time he had wondered how and _if_ he would recognize his alpha. The way the Jotun describe it in their primitive scrolls and paintings is, that the universe has a way to tell.

The universe! He is soaking wet and like his cock, his nipples are hard and rub against the cloth of his under garments. 

From far away he hears Selvig. "Maybe there is something in the atmosphere of Earth he can't take? He looks sick."

"Silence," Loki wants to snap, but instead he can only shakily exhale. The face of the man who is holding him from behind comes into focus.

It's Clint Barton. 

Clint Barton, the man with the bow, is his mate. His alpha.

The universe or his wayward Jotun biology chose Barton to be his alpha for a reason Loki can’t fathom. It all comes together. He remembers the moment, when he looked up to see him balancing high up on the construction frame of the SHIELD facility in New Mexico.

_But why? Why him?_

There cannot be a greater humiliation. He thought that being what he was—the second child of Odin, the prince without a throne, the hideous bastard of a monster race—was humiliating. He thought being the Chitauri's lapdog was humiliating.

 _This_ is infinitely worse. 

He almost laughs, but it's impossible to laugh. The air is too thick to breathe. He feels trapped, like an insect in amber. 

"Out," he gasps, to no one in particular, but holds onto Barton with pale, clammy fingers.

The staff members closest to him look up, confused. They stare at him, then at each other.

The archer bends down to him, and Loki repeats his order, whispering now. His entire body is shaking, and he knows it's only a matter of time until—

"Send them away," he whispers, shivering. He bites his lower lip to distract himself from the wetness between his legs. 

"Okay, out, all of you! We'll continue the meeting tomorrow, first thing in the morning, nine o'clock!" Barton orders in a firm voice. 

Everyone files out, throwing worried glances at Loki.

"Sir, I suggest you lie down and I’ll leave—"

Before the door shuts, Loki shoves the surprised Barton against the wall. His brain is not capable of processing complex thoughts any longer. There is only one imperative: he has to do, what his Jotun nature demands.

For now he has to comply. Coupling with Barton will calm his body’s vile urges for now, and before the next time he goes into heat, the Chitauri leader will have cured him from this condition. 

He can indulge his need and give in to it. He can have this but he has read enough about the Jotuns to know that he must not allow Barton to claim him.

_Don't let him fuck you._

If he submits to Barton, he'll be bound to him, the way a slave is bound to his master or a pet is bound to its owner, and this he _cannot_ let happen. No, Barton must not claim him, not own any part of him. 

On the contrary.

 _He_ has to dominate Barton, set the rules for now and for ever, lest he end up as some pathetic Midgardian's mate. He won't be made a slave. Maybe if he had lived a Jotun's life, he might have submitted to his fate like a mindless animal, but he is more than that and knows better.

The adoring, soft expression in Barton's eyes is unbearable.

"Loki," he whispers. He raises his hand, curls it around his neck and pulls him closer.

His voice is filled with quiet wonder, and for one moment, Loki wants nothing more than to rest and give in. Just lay his head into Barton's hands and let himself be taken. 

Barton takes his face in his hands (and they feel so good, so warm, so _safe_ ) and kisses him. Loki cannot resist and parts his lips. Barton tastes heavenly, and Loki hears himself moaning, although he still possesses enough control to feel shame.

Loki shakes his head to rid himself of the rough sweetness of Barton’s voice. He must not let himself be defeated. He draws another spell to himself, pulling at his stubbornly resisting magic with all his strength. 

An unbidden memory enters his mind.

_Once, when they had still been children, Loki had defeated Thor in a fight with magic, and Thor, furious, had taunted him: "This victory has no honor!" Unexpectedly Odin had defended Loki. "To let yourself be defeated is what lacks honor. Loki won, so honor is on his side. Victory doesn't care if you use magic or physical force.”_

_And after a heart beat, Thor had blinked._

_"You are right, All-father," he had said, bowing to Loki. "Forgive me my rash words."_

This is the only thing that counts in the end, Loki thinks. To not let yourself be defeated. And right now, Loki is inflamed with this purpose. He tears himself away from Barton's kiss and pushes him again, with more force than necessary, then begins to pull his clothes off.

He tries to savor the look of shock on Barton's face.

"No, Sir," Barton says. "Please. I want you, too, I want to serve you but please don't—"

Loki forces himself to laugh coldly, then turns Barton around, slamming his face into the wall. He frees his prick and pushes into Barton's dry and unprepared entrance.

Barton doesn't scream. He simply goes rigid and doesn't fight. There would not be much sense in fighting a god. Loki pulls Barton away from the wall, throws him onto the ground, kicks him in the ribs, and then kneels between his legs and enters him again. It's eerie, with Barton being silent and absolutely still. 

It's over in a few minutes. Loki empties himself into him, feeling unsatisfied, jittery. 

He pulls out and sits back, cleaning himself up with Barton's t-shirt. 

Barton's back is short but beautiful, sculpted and muscular. Loki forces his glance away and looks at the wall.

This coupling should satisfy the heat in him, while leaving him still unbound.

After a while Barton moves and Loki's come seeps out between his legs. And blood. Barton looks at it, then pulls his trousers up. He can't close them because the zipper is torn, but he doesn't seem to care. 

When he finally looks up, his eyes are the eyes of something dead. And they are no longer blue.

Somehow Barton managed to shake off the scepter's spell although this should be impossible. No one, and especially no human, can throw off the spell.

He feels a slight twinge of panic, but Loki fights it down, pushes it brutally back, when he reaches for his scepter. Barton is grimacing, in pain or amusement or maybe a mixture of both, and growls, "You better make me forget this, because if I ever remember I’ll kill you."

Loki presses the tip of the scepter against Barton's heart. When Barton looks up again, his eyes are blue.

Barton blinks in confusion. “Sir?" he asks, looking around, as if he is awakening. "Are you all right, sir?"


	4. Rigged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely [Roo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoozetteR/pseuds/RoozetteR)! It's her doing that makes this remotely readable!

Loki mourns the loss of his hawk.

He should not have trusted the strength of his magic. He should not have relied on the scepter alone. He should have woven stronger magic, built a tighter net of spells. He could have killed animals and humans and made sacrifices, spilled blood on ancient altars and shrines, called upon the ancient gods and demons of earth, but he was too proud. 

He was too sure of Barton.

And now Barton is lost to him. Once the spell has been broken that thoroughly it cannot be reapplied, he knows; 

(Barton used to be in his head at all times, an insistent presence, like a bird flying in that corner of the wide blue sky. Far away yet connected to him, ready to return to his side at any given time, at the slightest of Loki's signals, only now he will not return. He has cut the invisible leash, and has left him, without so much as a backward glance.)

The Romanov woman might think highly of her application of her crude techniques, but Loki knows that it was mostly Barton's effort and his unwavering, unchanging love for her, that pulled him back into the fold of the Avengers. 

He has, after all, never been truly Loki's. A part of Barton's heart has never stopped belonging to her. Loki is overcome with rage. He should have killed her and drank her blood, feasted on her heart. He should have crushed her skull, her bones, burnt her flesh and strewn the ashes. He should have stomped out her pathetic, small bird life. 

He gorges himself on revenge fantasies until he feels nauseated.

The truth is though, that he had not dared to kill her. After looking into Barton's deceptively simple-looking psyche, he had seen that killing Romanov would turn Barton against him. Reason enough for him to not move against her, which naturally makes him hate her even more.

As much as it pains him to admit, he envies her the power she so effortlessly and unknowingly wields over Barton. 

That night when she seeks him out, in the glass cage of the helicarrier, he lets himself be blinded by this hatred. He simply cannot resist toying with her and her little mind. 

He wants to test her love; only for his amusement as he tells himself. Under enough duress she would reveal _something_ : change of body temperature, heart beat, breathing, pupil dilation. She looks up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, and he feels something akin to warm happiness at her vulnerability. He wants to see her falling apart, if only for a moment. Love has always a way to make itself visible. Their tender hearts want to be seen. 

Then she taunts him with the information he has mistakenly handed to her, and he realizes that her tears serve one purpose only: to hide the coldness in her eyes. 

And now Barton is lost to him. 

He tells himself that it's of no consequence. He tells himself that the shame of him, a Demi God, being bound to a mortal would have been too great anyway. He would have been the joke of the Nine Realms. How Jotunheim would have mocked him; the false prince who set out to conquer Midgard, and ended up being an omega to a human.

The night before the battle he dreams. 

_He is lying on a grassy, green hill. Dusk is paling the sky. He can feel the cooling, slightly wet grass beneath his palms. He can see a house on top of the hills, made from wood, with orange, warm light seeping out of the window. The wind carries the sound of voices to him. In the dream that house is where he belongs, where he wants to belong. He feels the cold creep up through his palms, up his arms and his back._

_He cannot feel his legs._

_As this is a dream, he is not surprised but merely saddened that for a moment he has forgotten: he is a cripple. With great effort he shifts his body, arranging his legs using both arms. He tries to pull himself up, towards the house, but his arms are too weak, and he has to dig his fingers into the earth, tear at the grass to move._

_The night around him grows darker rapidly. Much too fast the soft glow of dusk turns into purple, then indigo, and finally into black._

_He is afraid of the darkness. He is afraid, that it'll take him, and turn him into a part of it. He fears that if he is out here any longer he will dissolve, become one with the night and become a ghost, condemned to batter against the windows, knock at the door without being heard or seen._

_Then the lights in the house go out, and the cold, starless night descends on him, the absolute darkness engulfs him like black water._

_He wants to cry out, call for help, but he cannot. His voice only comes out in a whisper. Loki's heart is so heavy with yearning and he weeps silent tears._

_The nameless, deep longing in Loki's heart pulls him deeper and deeper. He will never reach the house._

_He will never go home._

He wakes up to a warm summer day. All he remembers is the sadness, and it lingers for a while. 

He seeks out Stark Tower because it is a fitting place to begin his reign over Midgard, but also because he thinks that the Avengers might be awaiting him there, which means Barton might be there as well. Or if he isn't there yet, he'll come. 

To his disappointment only Tony Stark arrives to mock him, to make his flippant remarks. The depth of his disappointment surprises and secretly humiliates Loki. Why would Barton not come? He must by now have easily pieced together that he plans to open the portal from the Stark Tower, the tallest building in New York, a symbol of human arrogance. He and Selvig had planned this days before he gave Barton the order to attack the helicarrier, and although Barton was never directly told, he must have known. 

If Barton would still be under his control he would have come to re-join him, but even if he truly had rid himself of the spell, he would have come to seek revenge. One way or the other, how could Barton _not_ think continuously about him?

Again and again Loki ponders, knowing that he is about to glide into obsession. 

He is careful not to mention Barton to Tony. He might betray himself in the timbre of his voice, the glint in his eyes, a twitch in his facial muscles. Tony Stark is a braggart and a fool, but Loki already underestimated the humans once, and he should not repeat his mistake.

Stark has comedic timing, Loki has to give him that. As a jokester Stark has his values. It's the chilling moment the scepter fails to turn his eyes blue when Loki nearly loses his composure. For a wild, dizzying moment he thinks, he has lost his powers and the scepter won't answer him any longer until he realises that Stark has no human heart. Instead of blood and tissue a machine sits in his chest. 

Stark makes another joke, and just this cold, fearless glint in his eyes is enough to make Loki lose his countenance. Thor was always easy to rile, but Stark is unfazed and disrespectful. 

Loki feels a twinge of satisfaction as he hurls him through the glass (that humans consider as unbreakable). 

When Stark appears again, in his armour, hovering effortlessly in the air, Loki thinks that he might not win this world after all. And a tiny part of himself, tucked away under all these layers of ambition and aspiration, doesn't even really desire it all that much.

He has an army. 

What a laughable, ridiculous notion. This army is not his. As soon as they have torn apart this city, they will turn around and try to tear him apart too. It would all be different with Barton at his side. Loki has charisma and can be the leader, as he was born to be a king and a ruler by the law of the universe, but every king needs his general, and Barton would have filled the role perfectly. 

He would have been the one to cement Loki's victory. 

"Look around you," Thor says, and Loki turns his head, scanning the horizon for his wayward Hawk. 

What does he care for the mortals with their mayfly-lives? What is it to Thor if they die today or tomorrow? What kind of mercy is it to save them now, if they are not to last longer than another fleeting moment? Tomorrow they'll be gone.

Strange, how desolate and alone he feels. He hasn't expected to face all of this alone. He had seen himself on a throne, with Barton standing beside him. The sky is such a lonely place with no one to watch and to guard.

They fight. Although Thor is slower due to his sheer mass, he fights with so much more force and the righteousness of one who thinks himself morally superior. Loki can barely save himself with his cunning, and his lightning fast reflexes, letting himself fall, a feat he obviously excels in, and grasping the edge of one of the Chitauri vehicles flying past.

He weaves in and out between the high, sleek, unadorned buildings, struggling to keep the army together, but the Hulk and the Iron Man complicate things with their random attacks. Now and then he sees a fallen Chitauri with an arrow in his skull and hastily Loki looks around, searching the roofs of the buildings.

Finally he hears the telltale sonic sound of a bow, an arrow flying towards him, cutting the air with a hissing noise, and laughably slow. Loki is sure to give him a show in leisurely extending his arm to catch that arrow. It's as if Barton _wants_ him to and he nearly smiles.

Barton knows exactly what he is capable of. Shooting that ridiculous arrow at him must be a sign that deep down Barton cannot and will not kill—

The red and the yellow explodes into his face, catapults him from his Chitauri vehicle and fury and disbelief wash over him. Barton has rigged the arrow with an explosive. 

Hurling through the air, the anger blooms in his chest, _the hurt_.

How dare he? How dare this human outwit him? He loathes that white-hot stab of pain searing through his chest, the heavy feel of a knot sitting in his stomach.

With or without Barton he _will_ have his glory. 

He won't go down like this.

He'll have Midgard and once he's on the throne, he will set out to bring Barton back, to the place he belongs: at his side.


	5. Asgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to [Rex Luscus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus)! What would I do without you?

They are still afraid of him, which is a small comfort. 

"If it’s all the same to you," he says in his most pleasant tone. "I'll have that drink now."

Loki tries to reach his magic but he can't access it any longer. It has exhausted itself while his body had to frantically put itself back together, pulling the shards and splinters of his broken spine through his bleeding flesh, repairing shattered ribs and the fractures in his skull, the crushed organs and torn tissue. 

He forces himself to smile but cannot bring himself to look Barton in the eyes. 

The day he and Thor return to Asgard, the Avengers assemble again to bid Thor farewell and to ensure that Loki cannot escape. He can't help flinching when Banner steps closer but thankfully Barton is busy exchanging jokes with Steve Rogers and Tony Stark and doesn't notice his moment of weakness.

Then, when Thor and he are holding the tesseract in their hands, Barton stands in front of him, shielding himself with his sun glasses. Loki would like to believe that he does so because he is still afraid of him. He is tempted to tell himself that behind those dark shades Clint Barton's eyes are still a clear, arctic blue but he is not under any illusion.

For once Loki refuses to lie to himself. Barton is lost to him. A man like Barton will never forget this intrusion, will never forgive the betrayal. The toothy grin he graces Loki with is more threat than anything else.

If Barton remembers what took place weeks ago (and at some point he is bound to), his hatred will know no end. In Barton's mind, Loki saw all the abuse he suffered as a child and used it to subdue him, bringing all the nightmares and memories to the fore. It was a risky gamble, but had he succeeded and had Romanov not interfered, Barton would have been his forever, unable to tear himself away, locked in the dungeon of his past to which only Loki would have held the key.

It's better this way, he stubbornly insists, drowning out the mournful, pathetic voice inside him. What had to be done, had to be done. Even an inevitable if slow descent into madness is better than being bound as the submissive mate to a filthy human being.

Perhaps it is a small mercy that Barton hides his eyes. Loki doesn't know if he could endure to face his Alpha's unforgiving stare. 

Light envelops him and the tesseract pulls them through the universe, and he feels like he is being torn apart, all of him disappearing for a moment. He is nothing but light, a white beam, and he wishes he could simply dissolve and be no more, but then the world materialises around him again.

After being surrounded by the dull, earthen colours of Midgard, the brightness and the golden light in Valaskjalf burns his eyes. He sinks to his knees, but pulls himself up again.

Odin's throne, Hlidskjalf, is empty. 

Loki is taken by surprise and turns to Thor, enraged. 

How can this be? 

Thor understands the question without needing to hear it, but does not meet his accusing eyes.

So, his father has turned his back on him. He has abandoned Loki finally. He won't even give the creature he once stole, his ire, won't even look at him.

Only the heavily armed palace guards are here to greet them. The first row of armed guards moves forward in measured, precise steps, their faces solemn.

Loki recognises some of them. 

As a child he used to watch the guards training in the courtyard, gold metal armor flashing in the white Asgardian sunlight, and he remembers the long days and weeks it took to achieve that clockwork-like precision. How they move as one. They're like parts of a machine, connected to each other, moving with the same speed and force, as if inhabited by one spirit.

He remembers how the guard on the left, with the freckles, always used to miss a half step, was always a little too late. (This was a long time ago, though, and he doesn't miss any steps now.) 

Briefly he regrets having treated some of them cruelly: they'll make him pay for that, of this he is sure. 

He grits his teeth and readies himself, but before they take him into their midst, they bow and show him the respect reserved for a member of the Royal Family of Asgard. When he stumbles, one of them catches his arm. 

He hears Thor ordering a servant to inform Odin and Frigga of their return. 

When they enter the large wing where his quarters are located, he notices how all the heavy iron doors are locked once he has stepped through them. There are guards in every corner, armed with spears and swords, but they bow when Loki passes them. 

As far as he can see, his rooms are unchanged except for a small but relevant detail: there are now bars on the window. As he nears them, he becomes aware of Odin's runes and spells on them: they are suffocating his magic.

This, of course, is no surprise. He is more surprised by the fact that he is permitted to stay in his own rooms at all. It comforts him that Odin can't bear to have him locked in a real prison cell. It may be a weakness he can exploit.

Blueish smoke curls up from incense burning in the corners of his bedroom. Loki has always insisted on his favourite scents prior to arrival in his quarters. A plate with his favourite fruits is waiting for him on his desk, and he notices that the temperature of the room is exactly as he usually orders it to be. 

He drags himself to a large arm chair and sits down. The doors open and to his surprise (which he hides under a cold sneer) his old servants enter. They begin to take off his armour, their eyes averted, as if he has simply returned from another hunt or battle.

"Do you wish me to leave you while you are being tended to?" Thor finally asks. His voice is thick and gruff with sadness. Everything about him irritates Loki, as it always has and it takes every effort not to hiss at him. He just turns his head away, refusing to answer him. After a while Thor nods slowly, as if in deep thought, then leaves the room, door falling shut behind him with a heavy clank. 

The woman's name is Agneta, a maid who has served him since she herself was a child. And there is Magnus, when he had first begun to serve Loki dinner, clean his armour and boots, and take care of his errands. (Someone, Thor or Sif, told him once that Magnus had belonged to a group of two hundred villagers who had been taken hostage in a conflict between Asgard and Jotunheim and had suffered abuse at the Jotuns’ hands. Odin had given many children who had lost their parents in battle a new home in his palace.)

While Agneta can be vivacious and lively, Magnus is silent and earnest. Loki prefers them because they know him best. He has trained them well. 

Magnus also bears a faint resemblance to him, being of similar height and stature which is why Loki used him more than once as a stand-in when he wanted to sneak out of the castle. He ordered Magnus to sleep in his bed, and then spelled his hair black and sleek.

Sometimes he would be caught by Odin, and while Loki had merely had to travel to some remote place and spend a few weeks in solitude, Magnus had been beaten for his compliance. If Magnus was upset over his treatment he has never shown it. He's a servant after all, dull and uneducated, able to read and write and do basic arithmetic but no more. He could have had a worse life. No wonder he's loyal. 

Agneta takes Loki's outer clothes and hangs them on a metal rack. Magnus steps into the adjacent bathroom and prepares his bath. 

Soon he comes back and leads him to the bath. Only Magnus and Agneta know how he likes his bath, which combination of exotic oils to pour into the steaming water, which flower petals he prefers, which candles, the exact temperature. This is one of the reasons he kept them around.

Magnus carefully cuts him out of the ruined tunic. Where the fabric sticks to his skin, stiff with dried blood, he pries it off gently. He pushes the white pants down, loosening the draw string.

Magnus’ eyes linger for a fraction of a second between Loki's legs, but then like the perfect good servant he is, he hides his surprise or shock or disgust behind a blank, obedient expression. He helps Loki into his bath, managing to never directly look at him.

"Do you wish to read the book you last read in your bath?" he asks, as if Loki had never been away, as if Loki had not in the meantime attempted to destroy another planet, usurp Asgard and take over Midgard. 

Loki shakes his head. Magnus looks at him sadly, then leaves the room. Outside he can hear him speak to Agneta and then to Tho, who has re-entered. Loki doesn't understand the words, since the doors muffle them, but he understands the worried tone, the grief and concern.

Even now when so much is at stake, he cannot stop thinking of Barton. He should worry about Odin and about his refusal to be present at his sons' return. He should think about the punishment Odin will doubtlessly inflict. 

And yet, in the soft, hot cypress-scented water of his bath his thoughts return to Barton. 

He has to learn more about this entire debacle. Is it even possible to mate with other races? Humans are outwardly similar enough, but the thought of bedding one is revolting. (Or at least it used to be, before all of this.) He had not accounted for this possibility. Why would he bind himself to a Midgardian? How can it be that his thrice-damned biology didn't choose a Jotun … or an Asgardian? How does the body choose the mate?

Maybe Odin's magic, which forced him into the disguise of his pale Aesir skin, twisted and broke his Jotun biology. Something must have gone wrong then, and now Loki is left to live with that heat, that desire and that tugging in his heart. Did Odin’s magic find a way not to only alter the surface, but also wormed its way into his basic instincts and altered them?

When Loki is really honest with himself, and and at this point he has little left besides honesty, revulsion is not what he feels when he thinks about Barton. Of course, he _could not_ feel revulsion, even if he wanted to. 

Jotuns accept their fate without question, which is natural for such a primitive race. They believe the heat is some sort of divine force. 

Loki wonders, if Barton feels the same attraction. Is Barton also tormented by desire and inexplicable lust? He could believe it, the way, Barton had immediately succumbed to his spell. And other than him, Barton would have had no means of satisfying his desires, of controlling them.

Then again, he had also snapped out of it rather quickly. He had shaken off Loki as if he were nothing.

He has to admit that this hurts his pride. He would have hoped that his hold on Barton would not be so superficial and weak.

Too late he realises that his hands are wandering over his body, caressing himself and gently stroking himself between his legs. Before he can prevent it, he arches up into his own touch, and for a split second he feels Barton's eyes on him, filled with something different than the shine of the scepter.

This is madness, Loki thinks to himself, but he feels himself twitch against the palm of his hand. His cock is hard and his cunt is pulsing. 

Loki bites his lips, then shoves two fingers in, fucking himself as hard as he can. It is still not enough. Although he is knuckle-deep, he still bucks up, moaning. He begins to stroke his cock with his left hand.

The doors open and Magnus enters. Apologising, he tries to leave, but Loki snaps angrily at him.

"Make yourself useful!"

Obediently Magnus approaches him, then timidly takes Loki in hand and begins to stroke him, the way Loki has taught him.

"Faster," Loki orders him. Magnus awkwardly tries to touch his cunt, but Loki bats his hand away. With Magnus touching his cock, he can concentrate on fucking himself. He arches up, out of the water, and Magnus speeds up. 

With another finger Loki strokes his perineum and then circles the rim of his hole before pushing in, and that does it: golden, hot pleasure flows through him and he begins to convulse around his fingers. In the very last moment Barton is pushing into him, Barton's cock is fucking him, and with a loud cry he is pulled over the edge, covering Magnus' slender fingers with come. 

Angrily Loki yanks his hands away from himself and grips the rim of the bath tub, so firmly his knuckles turn white. Magnus silently cleans him up, then attempts to dry him with a cloth, but Loki pushes him away and dries himself with furious, rough movements, leaving his skin red and blotchy.

Magnus leaves immediately, having learned to decipher his master's mood. Lingering in the vicinity when Loki has one of his tantrums means to risk flogging or another painful punishment.

Agneta enters after him, carrying a bundle of fresh clothing. 

While Loki gets dressed silently, he hears the heavy doors of his rooms open and fall shut again, followed by excited murmuring, then silence.

He recognises that silence—that reverent hush that Odin All-Father's presence alone can evoke.

People fall silent too wherever Loki goes, but it's a wary kind of silence, distrust and barely concealed disrespect hidden behind masks of deliberate blandness.

And today, they will finally be allowed to show their hatred and disgust openly. No one will reprimand them for jeering at him. 

He takes time choosing his robes, with Agneta silently helping him. 

From behind the closed doors he hears silent steps, Odin pacing the room, and Loki sneers to himself.

Shall he wait, he thinks.

"What shall it be?" he asks loudly, startling Agneta. "Shall I wear the garb of the sinner? Demure and modest? Or shall we give them a spectacle?"

Sometimes Agneta surprises him.

"You are a prince, my Lord. I say you should dress like one." 

She holds up the gold and green garments he wore when he was ruling Asgard, looking at him for approval.

He smiles bitterly and allows her to finish dressing him.


	6. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you, [Roo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoozetteR). But then you know it, don't you?
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine!

"My king," he says, as coldly as he can.

He places his flat hand over his heart and bows, deliberately slow. He does not kneel.

"Make me," he thinks grimly.

Odin, standing at the window, doesn't move for a long moment. He looks like a statue, tall, in his long robes, and his cloak. 

"What have you done?" he asks, but in a strange voice that Loki barely recognises. It's not the strong, determined, sometimes booming voice of the All-father, but the timid, tinny voice of an old man.

How did Odin get so old? Loki looks up and sees that Odin's hair is snow white now, the sharpness of his one eye lost, faded to a pale, watery blue. As long as Loki can remember, Odin has always looked ageless, like gods do, but now he looks defeated. Finally it seems he has succumbed to the flow of millennia and although immortal, time managed to carve her signs into his skin, into his eyes. 

With one, two steps he stands before Loki and he thinks any moment he will strike out, strike him, but instead Odin only grasps the folds of Loki's tunic and begins crying.

"Father," Loki gasps, before he can think better. He has never seen his father cry before. Not for him. Not for Thor.

"I failed you, my child," says Odin. Loki is nauseated by the raw grief in his voice. Everything he has expected but not _this_.

Loki closes his eyes, breathes. He has to think. He lets himself be pulled into Odin's embrace and arms his heart against the weakness inside him. 

Oh, Odin is genuine. He truly believes his own self-deception. Both Thor and Odin would never think of themselves as unkind, uncaring or cold. Instead they harbour fantasies of sentiment to alleviate their feelings of guilt. When confronted with the damage they have done, they break down and cry like children, unable to face their deeds.

Does Odin truly expect sympathy from Loki? Is Loki supposed to shed tears with the man whose lies have destroyed his life and made him a failure?

Rage rises in Loki, like a fiery wave, an avalanche of hatred and he deliberately revels in it, while enduring his fathers embrace. Then he remembers to be cunning.

"Father," he says, in a small voice. "I am so sorry."

Odin lets go of him, looking at his face.

"I know you are not," he says, barely audible. "I know the rage you feel, and it pains me that I brought this over you."

His smile is gentle and Loki, feeling at once naked before him, pushes him away, roughly.

"You have no idea how I feel," he says flatly. "You have no idea of who I am. What I am."

Odin looks at him. "You are my child."

"I never was," says Loki. The bitterness in his voice isn't all pretense. "I never belonged. To anywhere." 

"Your mother and I cherished you," Odin says. His hands feel rough on Loki's smooth skin. "We love Baldr, and we love Thor, and all the other children … but _you_ ... you were always special to both of us."

Loki laughs a shrill, ugly laugh but Odin continues. 

"From the beginning you were such a beautiful child. Everything about you was perfect."

"Everything about me was a lie," Loki screams. He breathes hard, cursing himself for losing control. What is he doing? He needs to manipulate his father, he needs to get through to him, not alienate him further.

"As a child you were often sick," Odin says, thoughtful and lost in memories. "We were afraid that you wouldn't survive. You were delicate. We knew you were not made for our world. In hindsight, I realize my fears were based in my guilt. I took you from your world, and whatever reason I had to take you, whatever I told myself: the truth was that I still removed you from your home. 

I told you how I thought that one day you might be useful to forge a peace deeper than the fragile truce we hold, with Jotunheim, but this was all … rather cerebral. The truth is that although you were just a babe, you looked directly at me, with a clarity that should have not been possible in your age. You smiled at me, and in doing so you made me smile.

Thor would become king one day, I thought at that moment, and Frigga and I had to keep that in mind, whenever we interacted with Thor. Thor was already more Asgard's than ours in her womb. You, however, you could be truly ours, in a way Thor never would be, and I knew it would make Frigga so very happy.

And happy we were with you. While Thor had to spend a lot of time with instructors from an early age, we could spend many hours of the day with you. And yet, every time you fell sick, every time you were injured, your mother and I both were gripped by a strange, deep panic.

This was the reason why I always kept you from fighting with Thor. The boys, Hogun, Volstagg, Fandral, were rough, sturdy warriors, and once when you were still very young, Thor nearly killed you. Not intentionally, of course, but he was incapable of understanding that you were not like him."

Loki does remember the many times when Odin and Frigga scheduled lessons with instructors in the dark and large library, while Thor was sent away to train outside. He remembers the many, regular visits of healers and doctors, and his parents fretting over him. The lightest fever, the smallest cough he emitted had Frigga sending him to bed and Odin calling for yet another healer. 

He remembers that when Thor was the one injured or sick, Odin and Frigga merely shrugged. As a child he had not minded being blatantly spoiled, but as he grew older he had resented being treated like a girl. 

"Frigga agreed with me. She too was afraid that Asgard being so different from Jotunheim might not agree with you, and then we decided you needed to learn magic, to protect yourself. Not only in a battle, but also later, when you would be aware of your heritage. We wanted to prepare you to be able to hold up all the spells yourself."

"Once you forbid me from joining Thor on a journey to Varnheim." Loki suddenly recalls. 

It was the year after Thor had thrown him down a cliff during a fight. He had never connected the events when he had been a child, not overly concerned with the affairs of the grown ups. Now he realises that Thor had been sent away on purpose. In that year Odin and Frigga had begun to teach him magic and had sent for countless teachers who instructed him in the art of practising magic. 

"Yes," Odin's gaze is faraway. "I remember I pretended to punish you for something, but in fact both Frigga and I had decided that we couldn't trust Thor to take care of you."

"I am not a thing," Loki spat.

Odin shakes his head. "You were never a thing for us. Did you really feel like this? All this time?"

Loki finds he can't speak and turns away from Odin.

"We wanted for you to be happy."

"I was never happy."

"As a child you were," Odin disagrees. "You loved it when your mother carried and hugged you, and dressed you in silk and satin. You loved sitting with me in the study. You never even wanted to join Thor or Fandral or Volstagg. Don't you remember?"

Loki shrugs mulishly, angry and embarrassed and also faintly sad, as a memory flashes through his mind, the picture of the darkened study and his father reading, murmuring words, and Loki half asleep sitting on his lap, feeling so safe and protected in his arms, loved and cherished. 

In those days he had never thought of comparing himself with Thor, or feeling inferior or less loved. He had been absolutely convinced of the never ending, undemanding love of his parents.

"I never could take Thor to any meetings when he was a child: he was unruly and loud and disliked the formality, but you—you just sat on my lap, very quietly and listened and learned." Odin's voice is so soft as if he only speaks to himself.

"It's too late for this," Loki says bitterly. "It's too late for evoking sentimental childhood memories."

"Loki ..."

"What do you even want, _my king_? All of this means nothing to me," he hisses.

"I am here to beg your forgiveness, for what I have done to you and for what I will have to do to you," says Odin.

Ah, the punishment. Of course. Loki throws his head back and laughs without mirth. A part of him still cringes and begs him to be still, to play the part of the prodigal son, to show regret and remorse so his punishment may not be as harsh.

Another part of him just can't care any longer.

"Do whatever you have to do. Have me banned, tortured, killed. I already died not only one but many deaths. I will have no regret of leaving this lie of a life behind me."

He laughs more at Odin's defeated expression. 

(And yet, he doesn't want to die. He wants to live. He is aware that, no matter how worthless his life was to become, how much pain he would have to endure, he still would want to survive.)

From beneath lowered lashes he looks at Odin.

"I am so sorry, my child."

Loki says nothing for a while, but then he turns around and flings himself into his father's arms, the way he did last when he was a boy, not older than fourteen perhaps. He isn't sure himself why he does it: it's not entirely deliberate and calculated, but it's not a mere sentimental gesture either.

He doesn't know what he expects but there is a renewed mixture of relief and surprise when he feels Odin's arms embrace him.

"Loki," Odin says, again and again, and Loki doesn't know why and how, but this single word briefly melts away all the hatred and anger he had stored inside him for so long, as if they never existed, as it never had any substance. 

(And even for that he feels resentment; what right does Odin have to simply wipe out all the feelings he had harboured as if they're nothing? Why does Odin still have this power over him, why does Loki allow it?)

"Please," says Loki in a pleading voice. "I wanted to protect Asgard from Jotunheim … I wanted to make Asgard safe and I wanted to earn your approval. I wanted you to see me as your son. I know now how wrong I was, but please don't let me be punished for my failed attempt to gain your respect and love, father."

How alien the word "father" feels on his tongue, but as he thought, Odin's eyes seem to shine with gratitude and affection.

Odin rises, slowly, leaning on Loki, pressing his hands.

"I will not be the one who will decide over your fate," he says.

"What?" Loki hisses tonelessly. A dreadful suspicion arises in him.

"You are too close to me, and as your father I am no longer permitted to take part in the decision," Odin says, "I cannot be judge in a trial where the accused is my own child."

Loki takes a while to understand.

"The council will decide over your … case," Odin confirms Loki's suspicions.

So all is lost then. 

"You banished Thor," Loki says slowly. "He was responsible for the death of more than hundred Jotuns that day. There was no council for him. You decided over his fate."

"And that was a mistake. I was overwhelmed by my own rage and anger. The fact that Thor emerged unharmed and wisened was not due to my ill-advised decision but to a number of factors out of my reach. Times are changing, Asgard is changing. Thor has suggested many of the changes, and during your … absence … he has involved himself very actively in politics. One of the changes was the implementation of a fair and objective tribunal."

"And you agreed to this?" asks Loki, baffled. "You let them rob you of their power? Let them take away your right to rule?"

"There is no _right_ to rule," Odin replies. "This is why you could never be king. You never understood this. You want people to kneel for you. Ruling is an obligation and a responsibility."

"You have no right to say such things," Loki gasps. "You killed and maimed countless men, you invaded realms, _stole_ a child!"

"You would have died!"

"Do you know that for sure? I was left in a temple, a place for worship, the same place the winter casket was hidden." Loki's voice is bitter, and he perversely enjoys how every word he hisses seems to physically affect Odin. "You took everything from me in your greed and now I am … nothing."

Odin struggles for breath, for words. His hands are shaking as he cups Loki's face the way he used to when Loki was a child. 

"I have too long believed that the universe and the Nine Realms need a strong ruler, one king and one god only. These were the old ways. Thor brings the new ways. He wanted to share the throne with you. He is aware of his own weaknesses and sought to balance them with your intellect and your advise. You could and should have ruled together, but now this is impossible. Asgard will never accept you on the throne, nor any of the other realms, for fear you might bring war, unrest, death."

"Eliminating Jotunheim was a sound measure, to protect Asgard and ensure the safety of our borders," Loki grits out.

"The Frost Giants were not a threat before you lured them into Asgard."

"Don't think, they needed much persuasion! They were already hurrying towards Asgard, before I returned."

Odin opens his mouth, but then shuts it, staring at Loki. Finally he turns away.

"I asked the council that you won't be punished by death," Odin says. "It was the only wish granted to me, but I have no say in what else is going to happen to you."

When Loki looks at Odin again, he is taken aback by the tears on his face. Helpless fury but also something else which he cannot identify, wells up in him.

"Pull yourself together, Allfather," he says with a voice as cold and sharp as he can muster, "you are the one who lets this happen to me. You have no right to cry."

He pauses, mostly for effect. He always had an allure and talent for drama.

"This is not _your_ tragedy. It is _my_ comedy of failure. Another hilarious anecdote of me being thwarted."

Odin only shakes his head, stepping closer, but Loki steps away from him, his entire body stiff and tense.

"I did what I could, and I will continue to do so," Odin says. "I don't know what the council will decide, but I trust their decision will be just."

Loki suppresses a sharp retort and instead bows.

"I understand," he says demurely. How calm he is now. There is really not much to do, even though he thinks Odin must be lying. Why should he leave the council to decide over the prince of Asgard's fate? He was their rightful king once. The council has no right to preside over him, as if he were some ordinary thief.

"Your mother wishes to see you," Odin finally says. It seems as if it costs him enormous effort to speak. "You won't refuse her, will you?"

Actually Loki's first instinct is to refuse: he can't bear to see Frigga. His heart can't bear it, the pain and the shame which is strange, because in the past he had never thought much of her love. It had never seemed important because it had always been there, unwavering, unchanging, whatever happened, regardless of what he did. She had been stricter towards Thor, had sometimes punished him even, but never ever Loki. 

As a child he had assumed that she simply loved him more for being more agreeable and gentle than loud and rough Thor, but later came to the conclusion, that she really loved him _less_. He had convinced himself that she was merely more invested in the education of the future king and thus was less lenient towards Thor, while Loki was free to do as he pleased because he would never hold power.

He has never really entertained the thought that she would cease loving him: she was his mother after all. Mothers always love their children no matter what.

But what now? Not only is he not her child … he knows he must have broken her heart with what he had done, and what could he say? There is nothing he could say.

How can she forgive him? And how should he survive should she forgive him? Could he even bear her forgiveness? How can he bear to look at her? 

No, it is too much. He wants to shake his head, but Odin's gaze is firm.

"I will return in half an hour, and then Frigga and I shall escort you to the hall."

With these words Odin leaves him, and Loki briefly feels like an actor on a stage.

_Exit Odin._

Frigga's face is pale, but her eyes are burning like ember. He has never seen her like this before.

She takes his face in both of her hands, searches his eyes, for something, and as he tries to remove her (ice cold, shaking) hands, she grips him only firmer, and suddenly pulls him down, until he is on his knees, kneeling before her.

"Let me see," she says, her voice as icy as the deepest winter in Jotunheim. "I want to see if there is something left of my beloved son, underneath the monster, who lied and murdered in cold blood."

Loki opens his eyes wide, lets her stare penetrate him. 

"Mother," he whispers weakly. His voice fails him.

He has expected tears, but not _this_.

"Mother?" Frigga's voice is tight. Her grip on his hair hurts him. "Do you call me mother now because you hope to manipulate me? You do know that I have no say regarding your sentence, don't you? There is no need to lie to me and lure me into a false sense of security."

Loki shakes his head. He did not know that her voice could cut him so. He feels he is bleeding.

She shakes him again, her face hard.

"Are you still in there? Is my son still in there?"

"Mother," Loki says again. "Please."

He holds on to her, or she to him, he doesn't know any longer. Everything inside him hurts. 

"Forgive me," he gasps. "Please, mother."

Frigga goes still. She lets go of him, and Loki crumbles to an undignified heap onto the ground. When he finally dares to look at her, he sees that she is sitting at the edge of his bed, her back straight, her eyes empty and black. 

"You tried to kill your own brother," she says softly. 

"He isn't—"

"Silence." Frigga cuts him off. "You know as well as I do that he is your brother in every way that matters. What does blood matter? Who told you that these things matter?"

"If it doesn't matter, why didn't you tell me from the beginning then?" Loki asks. 

"Telling you when you were still so small and vulnerable, what good would it have done?"

"I am not your child. I am _Laufey's_ child. A monster," Loki whispers.

"You were not a monster. Not then. You became one, but that doesn't have anything to do with your blood or your heritage. You became one the moment you chose to kill your brother in order to secure your position on the throne. That moment when you let ambition guide your decisions, you became a true monster." 

Frigga stares into nothingness, her face a mask of grief. 

"Hlidskjalf's magic lets you see all of the Nine Realms, but such power can poison a weak mind. You see so many things, and the visions are overwhelming, but I always had trust in you, foolishly more than in Thor. I expected you to be more impartial than Odin and less cruel, less cold. I thought you compassionate, but I was wrong."

Loki crawls closer to her, then slowly lays his head into her lap, the way he did when he was a little boy. She used to comb his hair and sing to him. Her voice carried him into his dreams, and even when she had finished brushing his hair she continued to gently stroke his locks. He had never been happier than in these moments, breathing in her scent of lemons and spiced oranges, the sweet softness of her hands, the velvet of her voice.

How he misses the simplicity of these days. When his mother and his father were the world, the whole universe to him. 

As if she can read his mind, she begins to stroke his hair.

"My darling, my boy," she says suddenly, choking. He puts his arms around her waist, and presses himself against her, once more wishing he would be that boy he once was, an eternity ago, and the world would be far, far away.

In her embrace he allows himself to cry like a child.

Like Odin said, he returns later, with heavily armed guards. They are comprised of Odin's personal guards, but some are the council's men. Loki pretends not to see how pale they are and how they look at him with pity. 

He remembers Gunnar. They used to play together when they were little, with wooden swords, for castles built from mud and grass. It is hard to endure that the boy he once mercilessly whipped for mistakenly breaking his favourite toy, is the one to shackle him now.

Another guard steps forward: Loki has forgotten his name, but he taught Loki how to ride a horse. His father had been the stable master, and the boy had taken after him, talented with horses, beloved by them. When one of the wild stallions had thrown off Loki, the boy had carried Loki back to the palace, all the way.

"My prince," the man says, and then Loki remembers his name. Dag. 

Loki turns away from him, as soon as the shackles are fastened. The men take him in their midst. Then Dag reverently puts a heavy velvet cloak around his shoulders, pulling it close, so his bound wrists, his shame won't be visible. 

Odin himself puts the helmet on his head.

Loki sees his reflection in the mirror. He looks resplendent: like a king, not like a prisoner.

He understands this as a last act of mercy. 

As they walk through the corridors, Odin left and Frigga right of him, Loki holds his head up high.

He expects shouts and screams of hatred, a wall of anger, contempt, and has steeled himself for that, but then the doors open, and he steps into the golden hall with its gleaming pillars, marble floors and gilded walls and the people gathered here are neither hateful nor contemptuous. 

Their faces are pale, mournful. Some look at him with narrowed eyes, but even they seem sadder than anything else. Deathly silence greets him.

After the briefest moment of hesitation the entire court kneels. 

Thunderous silence bears down on the assembled crowd. Even the wind, its merry song usually audible, is still. Not a single breeze stirs. As Loki moves through the crowd, some men and women are crying.

Crying. For him? How dare they pity him.

Loki can see Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun. Sif looks up and she too has tears in her eyes.

Thor, is here, lurking in the shadows for once, leaning against a pillar, hunched in on himself, looking smaller than he is as Odin and Frigga are seated on Hlidskjalf.

Loki might as well be in a different, foreign country. He doesn't recognise any of the new rites and ceremonies. The council, formerly a small round of court employees, basically advisors for Odin, has grown into a body of more than thirty women and men.

Soon he learns that aside from the men of the law, there are healers and witches in the Council. 

Someone brings Loki a seat, then he is asked if he wishes for a glass of water. He shakes his head.

Everyone is waiting for something. Some of the healers start to whisper. They are preparing their speeches in which they will declare him insane, he thinks. Servants and court officials hurry around, bringing scrolls and parchments, documents. There is a startling lack of protocol that betrays how new the procedures are. 

A boy, not older than fifteen, approaches and removes his helmet. His clumsy, abrupt movements show that he hasn't been at court for long.

True, Loki has begun to sweat profusely, but under any other circumstances that boy would have been whipped bloody, for daring to lay a hand on the prince of Asgard without bowing, without asking. He would have not even been allowed near him. 

The constant low murmur of the council unsettles him, but he holds still. 

Finally there is something akin to an uproar at the other, open end of the hall. Loki minutely turns his head and sees only slender, tall silhouettes, much taller than Asgardians. 

As they approach he sees the indigo skin, the garnet eyes.

The council has brought Frost Giants to his trial.

He is nearly amused.


	7. The Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta [Rex Luscus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus)! After receiving the beta'ed chapter I did go back and rewrote parts so all remaining mistakes are mine!
> 
> * * *

"His Royal Highness is not from Asgard, so we must not treat him as such," a member of the council argues, a healer. "We must seek to comprehend his nature, learn how he is different from us."

Loki refrains from looking around, startled by the disrespectful manner with which the man speaks of him, a prince. 

"Prince Loki has never lived with us and learned our ways, so he is not one of us either," one of the Jotuns points out. 

The group of Jotuns standing in Valaskjalf looks different from the powerful warriors they fought in Jotunheim: they are shorter, with a somewhat finer build, and they have long, black hair, which they wear long and artfully braided. Their horns are smaller and more delicate, adorned with gold and jewels. The lines and ridges are less visible and resemble tattoos. Their clothing is also vastly different from the loin cloths the warriors are wearing. Fine silk and linen cover the legs of the Jotuns present today, although their torsos are still bare, displaying skin the color of night, dusted with gold. Upon a closer look Loki sees how finely ground mother-of-pearl, gold and bronze have been brushed carefully into the markings, and jewels have been pressed into them. 

With dismay he notices how some of the Asgardians look with wonder at these creatures, very much like gawking children. He is tempted to stomp his foot and tell them off for being so easily impressed. It's just tribal, primitive ornament! 

One of them is standing apart, silent and proud, dressed differently than the others in a heavy, hooded dark velvet cloak, finer than any velvet Loki has seen.

For reasons he refuses to examine, these Jotuns fill him with dread.

"His Royal Highness Loki has the physical traits of a Jotun," another Asgardian insists. "He is a Jotun, and the fact that he can go into heat and needs a mate is enough proof of it. He would suffer in Asgard, living an Asgardian life."

Loki inhales sharply. He had not expected that his condition would be discussed so openly. 

The Jotun, who spoke before looks at Loki. "Prince Loki … Odinson is of Asgard. He grew up belonging to the Royal Family of Asgard. He has not lived a single winter in Jotunheim, does not speak our language, does not know our world. He has grown up resenting us: a fact that King Odin himself admitted. No good would come of sending him into our world."

"He could learn about his origin and heritage," an Asgardian woman suggests. "He might find a way to integrate himself in both worlds, once he comes to accept his heritage."

"Wishful thinking," someone murmurs.

"There is another problem," a new voice points out, and at that Loki looks up. The frost giant with the hooded cloak. 

His voice is young, but commanding. 

"It is requested that you reveal your face when speaking before the council," one of the Asgardians says uneasily. 

Some of the frost giants murmur in protest, their fingers twitching towards swords they aren't wearing, but the man in the cape bows politely, then pulls his hood back. Some of the men in the council gasp in shock. 

Loki's eyes trace the lines on the dark blue face, the markings on the high forehead.

One of Laufey's sons. 

"Very well," the man says. "My name is Býleistr. Son of Laufey and brother of Helblindi." He bows to Loki. "Brother of Loki."

Odin and Frigga rise from their seat, then slowly descend the stairs to the floor but unexpectedly Býleistr approaches the throne to fall to his knees before them. This gesture of humility astonishes the Asgardians and it takes nearly five minutes until the excited whispering dies down again. 

All turn to face Thor, even Loki. After a short pause Thor approaches Býleistr and bows. Then he extends his arm and somewhat clumsily offers it to the king of frost giants. Even though some of the Elders have a hostile gleam in their eyes, they don't have a choice: where Thor bows, the court has to kneel and show deference.

Loki looks at Býleistr and gives him a curt nod. Not acknowledging him, after the truth about his heritage is already public would only be a silly affront, but to greet him like a man of his own standing: Loki doesn't think it would be wise. Be gentle to the beasts, but treat them as beasts nonetheless. 

"Welcome to the court of Asgard, King Býleistr," Thor says politely. "We are surprised but pleased that you took the long and perilous journey upon you to assist us with your counsel."

The accompanying frost giants are not convinced, as their stony miens betray, but Býleistr smiles pleasantly. When his hood falls back further it reveals that the markings on his torso have been set with gold and dark onyx stones. Like Loki he wears his hair long, but in coiled braids, a thin simple crown sitting on his head. The younger women (and some men) can't seem to help themselves and follow the smooth movement of his lean muscles as he straightens up, then bows to the court.

"I regret that we meet under these circumstances," Býleistr says, "and apologize for arriving incognito. Regarding the circumstances perhaps not a wise decision, but I decided at the last minute that a member of the Royal Family cannot be put to trial without any other of his kin present.”

Odin and Frigga resume their seats, their eyes filled with a strange, golden light. 

As children Loki and Thor had often sneaked into Valaskjalf driven by curiosity (Loki) and recklessness (Thor). Of course Loki and Thor had known by then that the beings seated on the throne were gods, united with the universe and one with Hlidskjalf, ancient and immortal, all-seeing, all-knowing: they were not their parents any longer. Still, the way Odin and Frigga were sitting absolutely immobile for days, weeks and months, palms flat on the arm rests, their gaze golden and seemingly blind had scared them. 

Thor follows his gaze, looks at Odin and Frigga who sit motionless like statues, then looks back at him, and Loki knows exactly that he remembers too.

Odin and Frigga are gone. They are here ... yet not here. 

Loki stares straight ahead. “I am not one of yours," he says to Býleistr, his voice as cutting as a sword's blade.

Býleistr regards him with an inscrutable expression. It may be mild amusement or pity. The darkness of his eyes makes it hard to read his thoughts.

"I am my father's son, but I don't believe everything my father stood for. I mourn my father because I knew him as a good man, but what he did was unwise and he paid for his folly with his life. Upon my return I shall make an official declaration of peace and condemn the actions of my father publicly. I am here today, because I wish peace for my people, so we can rebuild our shattered homes and regain our strength and beauty again."

Loki sees the suppressed discomfort on some of the frost giants' faces. Býleistr won't have an easy game he thinks scornfully. What a fool he is to denounce his dead father, standing in the court of Odin. One of the accompanying frost giants might kill him in his sleep if he isn't careful. Some of these men have never known anything but war and won't desire peace. 

"My brother Loki's presence at our court would upset many of the older generation who were loyal to Laufey king and I would be forced to at least impose house arrest upon him to keep him safe. He would not be a free man, and thus would not learn our world the way he should learn it. No one would appreciate a new world from behind prison bars."

Thor nods pensively. Loki has to admit that Býleistr does sound quite different from his father, soft-spoken, polite and educated.

"This alone is not the reason why I urge you not to send Loki to us," Býleistr continues. "Instead I suggest that Loki return to Midgard." 

Or maybe, Loki thinks grimly, he is _worse_ than his father.

"One of the secrets of our race is the heat and how we choose our mates," Býleistr continues, and suddenly a hush falls over the entire hall. The healers on the council are craning their necks, clutching their quills tight. "It is one of the biggest secrets that a Jotun has to keep, and Jotuns are forbidden to speak to anyone who is not from our realm about what you may call … Alphas and Omegas. In the past it would have been too dangerous a weapon in the hands of our enemies."

Býleistr smiles and manages to look … humble. 

"I admit that we ourselves don't know exactly what takes place when our souls recognise our mates, when our bodies start to feel longing for one person only. Because of the lack of explanation, many of us prefer to turn to religious beliefs. I personally believe it is an urge of the flesh. The choosing of a mate is not a divine decision but rather a decision the body makes for us. Many of the Elders would argue with me though."

He smiles wryly and some of the frost giants throw anxious glances at each other. The young king's opinion is not exactly popular. 

"One thing is clear, as you all must know, honourable members of the council," Býleistr says. "To prevent Prince Loki from uniting with his partner would be the harshest and most cruel punishment. It would condemn him to suffer longing, fever and desire without ever having the slightest chance of finding relief. It is possible to learn to live without a mate but it is painful. I have heard it splits the soul, tortures the mind into madness. To our knowledge his partner is a human in Midgard, so to Midgard he must go."

"But what about his mate … partner?" an older man asks. "Does he get to decide?"

"Decide?" Býleistr wonders aloud. "There really is no deciding in this. I admit it is extremely rare that a Jotun has a mate not from his own race, but I have heard from various sources that it is not unknown. A Jotun partner would recognise the prince the way the prince must have recognised him. After a period of getting to know each other, the parties move in together and share a household to bear and raise the children. Sometimes, though, personalities prove to be incompatible, and then the parties decide to live separate lives, and only meet when the Omega comes into heat and is ready to conceive a child. I am not familiar with the human species, except that they don't know periods of heat, and the urge to mate like Asgardians."

"Believe me, we _all_ know," a younger man mumbles, and that remark garners him some laughs.

"Almost enviably simple, that kind of life," someone comments. Býleistr, who must have heard the comment, opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again, and just smiles.

"Is that not an odd thing?" the woman, who had spoken earlier, asks. "If humans don't go through heat cycles nor have pre-destined mates, why did Loki's nature choose a human mate? Did this human choose him?"

Býleistr's face goes blank. “This is a mystery to us as well," he admits. He glances at another much taller and heavier frost giant, who bows and introduces himself as Ljot Rindson and promptly begins to speak in a gravelly, deep voice.

"From the few incidents we know of where a Jotun coupled with a mate from another realm, our magic extends to the partner and renders him or her capable of copulating with the Jotun."

Confusion flits over the faces of the healers who begin to whisper to each other. Even Loki, who possesses understanding of magic, finds the description vague. Ljot does not trouble himself with explanations and continues.

"We think, because Prince Loki did not grow up our way, but instead learned and practiced magic his entire life, magic inherently different from Jotun magic, his desires developed differently. He sought to suppress his heat with dangerous, dark magic which unfortunately might have damaged him in many ways, physically, emotionally, spiritually. This magic is alien to us, strong, powerful, and … incomprehensible."

Of course, the advanced art of seidr would be incomprehensible for Jotuns, Loki thinks and keeps himself from sneering. 

"Usually young Jotuns who experience their first heat are cared for with gentle magic and rituals. Long before they enter their first heat, they know what is going to happen to them and their bodies, and they are unafraid. The first heat is sacred, and we call it the Wild Spring–a reason to celebrate life and fertility."

He looks at Býleistr as if for approval, and when the king nods, he continues speaking.

"When Loki had his first heat he was on Midgard … in a, er, mentally unstable state. Perhaps all of these unusual circumstances together triggered his … choice of partner."

Loki notices again, how some of the frost giants, underneath their blank masks, show doubt. 

"We regret that at this point we have nothing but admittedly flimsy theories. Regardless of the reasons for Prince Loki's choice, unfortunately, this doesn't change what has to happen. His Highness has to return to Midgard, and seek to unite with his partner."

There is a long silence after these words. 

Finally Loki speaks up.

"I ask you," he says, trying to control his voice so it doesn't come out as a furious shriek. "I urge you not to send me back to Midgard. If the Jotun have so little knowledge about me, a fact they even admit, then how can they be so sure about … my partner? I might be Jotun by blood, but I am of the Aesir by choice and the divine magic of the Allfather Odin. Punish me as you will, but punish me as one of the Aesir. Do not treat me like an animal."

Most of the members of the council, especially the women, used to be unable to resist his large, pleading eyes when he was a child. As he looks into their mournful faces, he pauses artfully, pretending to struggle for words, letting tears well up and his lips tremble. He takes his time to look each one into their eyes.

"Do not," he repeats, "send me to succumb to these urges. They are not, as the Jotun might see it, unchangeable, unavoidable. Even they themselves are not sure if they are meant to be like this. You heard them speak! They are not sure if it is a divine force or biological instinct. How can they be so sure about me? They simply do not know. All they have is superstition and beliefs. I do not belong to their race, and as they have admitted, I know nothing of their rites, their habits."

Again he pauses, this time to humbly cast down his eyes.

“All this would achieve only one thing for sure: my humiliation and pain, my debasement, in forcing me to go untreated and unprotected to Midgard, to couple with a human. And even if you think this might be a fitting punishment for me, and I do understand if you do, then remember that I am Loki, Prince of Asgard, son of Odin and Frigga, brother of Thor and that I was also the _rightful_ king of Asgard." 

" _Formerly_ rightful king of Asgard!" someone quips, and Loki, enraged, whips his head around to see who dares to mock him. A nervous chuckle rises amongst the council members but quiets immediately, when Thor frowns and makes a movement with his hand.

"If my personal humiliation would please you," Loki continues, his voice trembling, "then I ask you to consider that it you would condone the demeaning of the name of Asgard, to the pleasure of the Jotun, who may have come here today just to seek clever revenge from the man who has defeated and protected Asgard from them."

If Býleistr is offended, it is impossible to see. More slender and shorter than his father, the blue of his skin not as dark and the texture not as rough but smoother, he is oddly attractive, and with dismay Loki notices that his nearly Aesir-like features seduce the members of the council to pay more attention to his words than they would otherwise.

"If I sought retribution, Loki, Prince of Asgard, we would ask the council to extradite you to Jotunheimr and we would subsequently put you to trial. The punishment for your crime against our king could be life-long slavery with the removal of your royal lines or even death," says Býleistr. "I truly do not think that returning you to Midgard is the harsher punishment. All I want is to ensure that you can no longer harm us, and that we can offer advice and help regarding your nature, to help Asgard–and you–understand that to a degree you are not responsible for the crimes you committed. In short, I am here to lessen your punishment, not to seek retribution."

The way the council seems to regard Býleistr alarms Loki. He's obviously educated and has not inherited his father's famed temper. He can literally _see_ how the younger members begin to doubt the stories about the cruel and murderous frost giants they have been told as children.

"For once," Býleistr explains, as if he has heard the unspoken question, "I understand your grief. Although I would not have done the same in your position, I do understand how the revelation of your true heritage must have burdened you, especially with the ways of your Asgardian upbringing. Secondly, despite all that has happened, I regard you as my brother. You and I are of the same blood. One day, when the time has come, I would very much like to welcome you on Jotunheim and perhaps be able to reconcile you with your origins."

"I was left to die," Loki says. "Your king and father left me to die. How am I your brother? How can you call me brother, when your father wished me dead?"

Býleistr steps closer to Loki.

"When my father was made king, times were very different," he says. "In these days, in fact until I was crowned and made his successor, it was a time-honoured tradition to let the casket of ancient winters decide wether the child of the king was to live or to die. 

“The first night after the birth, it had to sleep at the mother's heart, the second at the father's but the third night it was to be left in the temple, near the casket of ancient winters. If it was alive in the morning, it meant that the child was strong enough to become king."

Býleistr’s gaze was dark.

"When you were born, brother, my father and your mother believed you were destined to die because you were small. It took you a long time to begin breathing. You seemed too weak to survive the night, but they had to follow the tradition and let the casket decide your fate."

Býleistr smiles his wry smile again.

"Strictly speaking, King Odin committed a crime against the Royal Family in removing you from the temple. However, under these circumstances he saved your life, as you would have surely died in there."

Býleistr then bows, and in that following silence Loki knows he has also lost this battle.


	8. Floor Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big welcome and thank you to my beta for this chapter **wonderluck**! Special gratitude for working fast and thorough and catching so many mistakes of mine!
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine! There may be some because I changed a few parts after receiving the chapter back! Apologies!
> 
> * * *

"This is the moment where I break down and plead for my life, right?" said Agent O.

"Really?" Clint replied. "You've been working for SHIELD long enough to know what makes sense and what doesn't."

"I may panic. Forget my training. I'm human after—"

"Any last words?" Clint meticulously checked his Glock, cocked it.

The agent watched him, pale but composed. He was very young, one of the youngest to have been recruited in 1997, Clint remembered.

"I once saved your life. Remember Karachi 1999?" Agent O. said. Despite the fear he must have felt, his voice was firm and wavered only slightly at the end.

Clint nodded, sat back, his gun resting against his arm. The only thing in the agent's face that betrayed his fear were his large, black eyes, the pupils drowning out the blue of his irises.

“We have all the time in the world,” he told the agent. “Whatever you want to say, now’s the time.”

"You saved mine a year later. You risked your life for me. I still remember how—"

The shot rang through the silence, and the agent fell, dead before he reached the ground. 

Clint calmly pocketed his weapon, turned around and left. 

Later, Loki would ask how many men he had to discard, and Clint gave him the number: thirty-eight men and women.

 

Shortly before dawn Clint wakes up. 

He doesn't force the dream out, but instead lets it fade slowly away, wisps of it still hanging in the cool air like morning mist when he goes for his run. After nights like this he runs at a faster pace, and he welcomes the first sting of cold wind in his lungs, his skin prickling, his muscles warming up. Once his calves and joints are ready and limber enough he starts his sprint, his entire body jolting into motion like an arrow being released from a bow.

He runs his favorite track through the park; instead of keeping to the concreted foot path he cuts across a play ground, then runs uphill through a patch of green, making a few jumps over a wooden fence on the way to the softer mud path, the wet grass blades licking his legs, dew clinging onto his t-shirt and hair. 

These days he runs without listening to music. He wants to hear his breathing, the drum of his heartbeat in his ears. It’s important for him to assess his own fitness and condition but more than that he feels some sort of grim satisfaction hearing these undeniable signs of his continued existence.

_I am still alive. I am still here._

There is a point where his muscles seem to use more oxygen than he takes in, and he feels dizzy, near collapsing, and this is the moment of the day when he is nearly okay. The world tilts into focus. He can hear the chatter of parents pushing their prams, the shrieking of children, the faint noises of their sneakers on the grass. He can feel the subtle changes of the wind, he can smell the autumn leaves on the ground.

He can see each single grass blade, the ants crawling between them, the clumps of wet, cold earth underneath. When he lifts his gaze he sees the blackened, cool bark of the trees a few hundred metres away. He sees the Hello Kitty logo on the girl’s sneakers even further away. 

(Once or twice Loki called Clint teasingly “hawk” after he had learned that he was known as "Hawkeye". Clint had taken much pride in the fact that even Loki had regarded his eye sight as exceptional. Tough he won’t think of that now he tells himself.)

When he goes back up to his apartment he pushes the button for floor 13 before pushing his own, floor 55. It never lights up because only a few, selected agents have clearance to enter that floor and see its sole occupant.

Since the entire floor has been turned into a high security prison, locked down and equipped with safety measures ordered by Fury and engineered by Stark, the lift doesn't stop there any longer. 

Natasha asked him about it: if Clint’s okay with it. She didn't pry, but the way she looked at him, he knew he didn't really have to answer. 

She knows him. 

She knows where he is strong and where he is … brittle. She can read the way he clenches his jaw sometimes (not a sign of suppressed anger as many believe, but his way of smirking), the way he narrows his eyes (not a sign of distrust, but his cat-like way of telling someone he likes them). She knows that when he begins to idly rub the pads of his fingers together, he is stressed or that when he shows his teeth while smiling, someone's in danger of being killed.

She knows that he is not _okay_ , but she knows he can manage. Natasha doesn't believe in helping people as long as they can help themselves. 

He had the chance to briefly glance at some of the classified files about Loki, and is still not sure if he understands. He had no time to read each section, each word, but Clint suspects that even if he could have, he’d not understand more.

At least one of them contained pictures of Loki, taken of him the day after his arrival. 

PTSD—Clint felt it right away when Loki's perfect features gazed at him, the only thing out of place his weird green eyes, large and wide, like the eyes of some anime creature. Stress, anxiety, restlessness, an awful foreboding feeling, as if some sort of disaster is looming at the horizon, and only he can see it.

Loki was thinner now, looking almost youthful. His hair, which used to be glossed back, hung in soft waves and curls around his face. He sat on a chair, facing the camera, his hands in his lap. On the photograph he was collared, wearing heavy handcuffs and ankle cuffs, and Clint still hates himself for that spike of heat flaring up in him as he saw Loki's pale throat and that heavy steel collar.

The following night he spent lying in his bed (the only piece of furniture in his room, besides the walk-in robes, because he still couldn't be bothered to buy furniture) and staring at the ceiling, wondering.

He has meetings with Fury and the therapists, and although the therapists tell Fury that Loki's presence isn't unproblematic (an understatement if there ever was) everyone seems to be satisfied with Clint’s reactions and responses. 

No one expected a miracle after what had happened, but at least he's functioning, he’s sane, he’s calm.

Just as he emerges from his shower, he receives a message from Jarvis: Loki has been cleared. 

Fury calls him and the others—Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner and of course Natasha, to a meeting, in which both Thor and Loki are present. 

There is a weird bubbly, sickening joy when Fury announces his decision, and Clint can't put a finger on why. It seems such a strange feeling to have, so out of place for someone like him.

Loki is sitting in the middle of the room, wearing a simple, grey jumpsuit. He is still collared and there is something red and blinking on that collar, a device that would blow him up if he were to try to remove that thing probably. His handcuffs are not only covering his wrists but also extending to the knuckles. He can't even bend his fingers. The ankle cuffs are welded to the chair.

All unnecessary precautions, Fury stresses. Loki has been tested repeatedly and poses no threat. He's of average human strength now. 

Tony makes flippant remarks, plays the jester once more, although his brown eyes are cold and calculating. He, too, must have read the classified files about Loki. Clint can literally see the man's fingers twitching. He wants to get his hands on Loki, examine him, take him apart, replicate him. When Fury briefly hints that Loki still isn't _exactly_ human, Tony barks out a short, sharp laugh, so untypical of him that even Natasha looks at him, startled. Thor doesn't look at him, seems lost.

Bruce is restrained, and foremost worried. Whenever he asks a question directed at Loki, he takes care to sound _soothing_ as if Loki is a scared child.

This enrages Clint more than it should: Bruce's mild, forgiving, almost maternal attitude towards Loki. Maybe he feels guilty for beating the crap out of him. Well, he shouldn't, Clint thinks viciously.

Natasha's face is unreadable, but whenever Loki looks at her, she smiles at him, and he acts as if it unsettles him. (Clint won't fall for that. Nothing unsettles Loki.)

Amusingly, Natasha works _first and foremost_ for SHIELD and what it stands for: the values, for lack of a better word. She doesn't care much about Fury, although she did like Coulson. Once, in a drunken moment, she confided a little in Clint and told him what he had long suspected anyway: that she needs some form of moral compass, provided as an abstract concept because she doesn't trust people. People are corrupt, in her eyes; ideas and concepts are not. Needless to say, she'd added with a wry grin, she possesses none of her own. 

This is why Loki doesn't faze her in the least. If anything else, she might feel more kinship to him than to other men. How strange that Loki couldn't see this. Or could he?

Clint, on the other hand, has never trusted SHIELD. He doesn't even trust himself with the concept of law enforcement, but he respected and trusted Fury and Coulson. In a way he let these men be his moral compass. Coulson's death leaves him in a vacuum, more than he had ever expected. He has gone to enough therapy sessions to know that he regarded Coulson as some sort of older ersatz-brother and Fury as his father. Knowing doesn't make anything easier of course.

He doesn’t need the therapist to explain to him, how he craves a family structure, stability and that this is what Loki had taken advantage of.

_No shit, Sherlock._

Loki had made him feel disgustingly ... content and fulfilled (he hates himself more for that than Loki) and it had made him stand still for the first time in his life. As Loki had been rummaging through his mind like a greedy child in a candy store, he had pulled out memory after memory and he had been forced to face all these emotions and truths he had carefully kept from himself all his life. Clint had understood then, even in his dazed state, that Loki had been looking for information he could use against him, only he had spent far too much time in his mind, as if he could not get enough of Clint's miserable, meaningless life. 

He had wondered more than once why Loki had entered his mind again and again, going deeper and deeper. What the hell had he been looking for? At some point it just had seemed to be a pastime, something Loki just … had liked to do, like a freaking, pointless hobby. It had seemed to calm him, entertain him.

Even now, days, weeks later, he doesn't understand why. Why him? Why not Selvig's mind? It still puzzles him.

Worse than than that had been to admit to himself how little all these moments truly meant to him. Loki's prying had torn down everything, every wall of carefully erected self-deception, every illusion he had ever harbored, about himself, about others, and in the aftermath Clint isn't able to re-erect them again. 

Loki had shown him the bare, pitiful truth about his life: that while others live, he merely exists, running from his past and into nothingness. None of the goals other people have matter to him. 

You were made to be mine, Loki had said, smiling affectionately. 

And Clint had been so pathetically grateful, hadn't he, overflowing with servile admiration for his master.

 _"Thank you for opening my eyes to my shell of a life."_

Every time he remembers that he feels sick to the stomach.

He will never be able to be willfully blind about himself (or Natasha) again and it hurts him more than he can understand. 

In hindsight Loki's almost excessive spying on Natasha, through Clint's memories and thoughts of her, enrages him more than anything else. He still clenches his fists when he remembers Loki examining his cherished memory of a naked Natasha and making lewd, nasty remarks about her.

Even when under the scepter's influence he had thought that petty, Loki's affected grimace of disgust.

He remembers the strange, inscrutable glance Loki gave him moments before he and Thor disappeared, whisked away by the force of the Tesseract, into thin air, like a circus illusion. Part of him had wanted to treat Loki as such: a nightmarish mirage, gone now, but another part had known that the story didn't end here. 

It won't.

It won’t.

He doesn't want to look at Loki but he does.

Loki looks frail, the pale skin waxen and nearly translucent, purple rings under his eyes so dark they look like bruises, the black hair lank around the face, but curling a little at the ends. Clint finds himself staring at Loki's neck, the paper-thin skin there. His fingers twitch.

Loki is staring back at him with dark, feverish eyes and an intense gaze Clint can't read. He'd think it'd be hatred or anger about his humiliation, except Loki doesn't look angry. He looks desperate.

After a long silence Thor begins to speak, and then Loki averts his eyes, looks at the ground, and lets his hair obscure his face. Clint exhales in relief. He can feel Natasha's scrutiny, but acknowledging her will only make her ask questions.

When Fury explains Loki's … biology, a shiver goes through Loki, an unmistakable tension, and Clint sees how he draws his black eyebrows together, probably unable to stand the pitiful (Steve's and Bruce's) and openly curious glances (Tony's). 

Hill passes out reports about Loki. The report mentions "alien biology" and concentrates on other facts like body weight and mass, which is greatly reduced since he has been rendered human by his father's magic.

When Fury breaches the nature of Loki's gender, Tony can't contain his curiosity any longer and leans forward, looking at Loki, then asks Fury directly. 

"So he is a fully functioning female? Who can get pregnant?"

Tony is completely unfazed by the look of sheer hatred that Loki shoots him, and instead continues with his questions.

Something about Tony's shameless curiosity enrages Clint. Everything inside him is in motion, like a volatile sea. 

So Loki is something between a female and a male. Or both. Or nothing at all. How fitting of Loki to defy categorization.

"He's his own gender," Tony chuckles, and suddenly Clint knows what drives him crazy.

That no one else seems to be angry.

Thor, of course, is unable to see his brother the way he is, but everyone knows that. Even Thor knows his own blindness. Clint thinks he could never have been this blind against Barney, but then again Barney was never Loki.

But ... Loki isn’t Tony Stark's, Bruce Banner's or Steve Rogers' brother. And yet all of them, including Fury, behave as if this is not a crazed psychotic mass murderer, but some wayward kid, a teenaged rebel. 

At least Maria Hill has her hand on her weapon. Someone who still has some sense, Clint thinks. 

Natasha pushes a stack of paper towards him. A photograph of Loki that he hasn't seen earlier is on one of the first pages, a close up of his face.

It's hard to imagine that Loki would tolerate this treatment, being photographed and examined, but then Clint remembers: he is supposed to be human now. Amusing, that in Asgard this is regarded as a punishment—to live life as a human being. 

Loki gazes almost dreamily into the camera, his pupils clearly visible in the harsh flashlight. His eyes are very green, but slightly opaque, like jade. His lashes are so long and black it looks as if he is wearing some sort of eyeliner or mascara.

The collar of his grey suit is slightly open and reveals a part of his collarbone, the metal of his collar and Clint swallows, feeling his skin prickle.

Natasha takes the folder out of his hand then leafs through it until she has found the page she wants to show him. It's a page with his measurements, like height, weight, hair color, etc., and a few lengthier paragraphs.

Clint doesn't pull the folder to himself, but catches only a few words: "polite" and "restrained".

Then further down some sort of summary about him provided by Asgard and the Jotuns.

Clint nearly chokes on his coffee as he reads all that stuff, and has to force his eyes away to be able to continue to listen to Fury.

Still, his mind goes back to all these _facts_.

He can't help but quickly glance at Loki again. Clint tries to imagine Loki's body. Underneath his clothes. 

Not entirely human after all.

Then a sudden flash tears him out of this meeting, and he is entirely somewhere else. 

_"Sir," he says, so much feeling gathered inside him, "I want you, too."_

_And hot skin on his back, and teeth, and that searing, red pain pulling him apart._

Something happened there, and it drives Clint mad he can’t remember, or can he or is he imagining things? Suddenly he feels sick, and his skin is cold and numb. He has to press the back of his hand against his mouth, forces himself to inhale, swallow down the bile.

"Are you okay there?" Tony asks, peering at him.

Everyone is looking at him.

Clint nods, refusing to explain.

When he looks up, Loki is staring at him, his gaze pensive and calculating.

Fury stands at the end of the table with his papers in his hand, the other hand in the air. He was about to say something.

Loki slowly sits back, not letting him out of his sight.

"Basically there is no choice," Fury continues, staring fiercely at Clint with his one eye. "The council decided it would be the best to send Loki to us, and obviously we're not exactly in the position to refuse."

"Just what hypothetically would happen if we were to refuse?" Tony asks. "I'm just curious here."

"Nobody would be punished," says Thor impatiently, "Asgard simply would have to find another solution."

"What other solutions are available?" Steve asks. 

Thor strokes his beard, frowns. 

"There are other safe places for Loki, on Alfheim and Nilfheim, but it would be far more difficult to have an eye on Loki there. These planets are nearly unsuitable for human habitation."

"I find that more fitting than sticking him in Mr. Starks luxury tower," Hill mutters, a pained expression on her face. 

Clint remembers that Coulson had always liked her, and wonders if they had been lovers. There is so much pain in her hatred, and if anyone can understand, Clint can, if for different reasons.

He wishes Loki would stop looking at him, and he wishes he wouldn't feel so exposed. 

"Why not put him into Supermax?" he grunts. "I bet he'd make a lot of friends there."

Fury snorts and Steve shakes his head.

"According to the report Loki hasn't been exactly sane for the past few months," Bruce says in that infuriatingly soothing voice. 

"I'm serious," he insists, ignoring Bruce for now. "Why bring him here? This is not a prison, but a prison facility is exactly where Loki needs to be, and I'm pretty sure there are more than plenty of willing friends to help him out when he does that," he waves his arm towards the report, "heat thing."

Thor balls his fists, but unclenches them.

"I am sorry that you have suffered because of what my brother did," he begins.

"No," Clint interrupts him, becoming more and more irritated by the minute. Maybe everyone except him is brainwashed now? " _You_ are not your brother, and as far as we're all told, you're not even _his_ brother, so just … don't. If anyone should apologize then it should be your fucking shit of a ... brother."

“Did anyone else find that sentence really confusing?” Tony asks.

Thor wants to reply, so does Fury, but Clint rises.

"Loki may be weighing 160 instead of 600 pounds, and _maybe_ he's one of us now, or so your dad wants to make us believe, but that doesn't make him less dangerous. Just because his life expectancy shrunk from, I don't know, a million years to eighty doesn't mean he's not up to no good. He's a killer, he's a fucking psychopath and nothing will change that. He still can manipulate people. He still can commit crimes, murder innocent people."

He realizes that he is beyond furious. Everyone gazes at him in a solemn, subdued way, and frustrated, he slams his hand down onto the desk. Out of all the people only Loki flinches.

"I just think you should read that report about Loki," Tony says. "Maybe inform yourself a little before you throw a tantrum."

It's more than he can take. He pushes his chair back and leaves, faintly satisfied how the door thuds shut on his way out.

 

_He is high above in the air, and the cold air is ruffling his feathers. He is cutting through the sky, through thick clouds, peering at the winter landscape far beneath him. He blinks and the world loses focus, but then he sees a black haired boy gliding over the ice. The sound of the skates is the only sound to be heard, so loud as if he is skating beside him._

_Then another blink, and following the strange logic of dreams he is in bed with his lover. It is early morning. The sun hasn't come up yet, and his lover draws him closer, whispering sweet nothings. The warmth and sweetness of his embrace is overwhelming. He feels with every fiber of his being that he is at home._

_Although his heart has never been that open and vulnerable, although he has never loved more than in this moment, he is not afraid._

_He is not afraid._

_"Loki," Clint murmurs, smiling._

This time he jolts out of bed, stumbles into the shower and turns on the cold water, trying to shock the dream out of his system.

What the hell?

He briefly considers telling Natasha, but then again, what is she supposed to do, hold his hand? He wouldn't really know what to say to her if she were the one plagued with weird sex dreams.

Instead he decides to take a Prozac to calm him down, and goes for a run. 

At five o'clock in the morning, the world is still mostly asleep. The sky is unusually colourful today, and he jogs briskly to the park. He needs a slow, long run today, something to chase the images away, to forget himself a bit. His knees will thank him, especially after Bruce had to fix them with a collagen shot and warned him not to burden them too much in the next weeks. 

The dream, though, refuses to fade and instead stubbornly replays itself, and after a while he lets himself be pulled into a sprint, every muscle screaming, his lungs burning. He runs and runs, faster and faster, ignoring his body's protest, the pain in his knees, in his calves. Yet over all that noise his heart makes, he can still hear Loki's whisper.

It's at the end of his sprint, when he finally stops, nearly falling, sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes, that he makes a decision.

Floor 13.


	9. Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear [Rex Luscus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus) for your super speedy and perfect beta work!
> 
> I apologise for the long wait for the last chapters! My LJ friends know that I took on a temp job for which I have to get up at 6am so that was the main reason! I obviously am not exactly a multi-tasker :(
> 
> To make up for the long wait, this chapter is a little longer than usual! 
> 
> I can't thank you enough for being patient with me and reading and commenting! Every time I see a new kudos or comment notification popping up, I feel like a kid getting a christmas present :D
> 
> YOU ARE THE BEST!
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> Caro
> 
> * * *

Throughout Odin's final farewell, Loki remains silent, turns his head away and refuses to look at him. Odin speaks magic, and immediately it gathers around them, seems to manifest from thin air, and renewed, jealous hatred burns through Loki when he recognises how _strong_ this magic is, a devastating force that breaks everything apart and pulls his own powers from him, then shatters them. For one moment the force of it is bundled into rays of blinding white light that fills the entirety of Valaskjalf. 

Thousand knives slash through his flesh and bones. He can feel himself disintegrating, shredded and then put together again, atom by atom.

No magic resides in him anymore. 

It is better than millennia of torture, of being poisoned by a snake or chained to a rock or banished to the depths of Hel. The council thinks this clemency.

The council bases their verdict on the premise that Loki's mind was clouded, sicne he was unaware of the complicated sexuality of his heritage. The major part of his crimes was due to the nature of his unrecognised heat, the absence of his mate, the interaction of Jotun biology with Odin's strong magic, and so he is spared the death sentence.

In short, Loki's magic is drawn from him to protect him from further harm, they say (to which Loki only laughs) but this means that he will be entirely influenced by his hateful, _despicable_ Jotun urges. He has to go where his mate is, he has to go to him and submit to him. 

So this is their revenge: his humiliation, as he becomes a bitch in heat who must seek out his human mate, beg him to fuck him, and then bear his children.

Loki is tempted to beg for death, but that moment comes and goes. Should these swines throw him to Midgard. He still can make his way back to Asgard. He has clawed his way back into the light from other, worse hells than these. If he only stays alive long enough he will find a way to return. To survive means sometimes to accept the hard part of a deal and to get on with it. Defiance or refusal to accept the cold, hard facts won't get him anywhere.

He fell from the Bifrost and survived. He survived the Chitauri. He was literally crushed by a large, brutal monster and he survived. 

He will survive this, no matter what. And then he'll kill Barton, he'll kill Thor, he'll kill them all if necessary, and he'll survive. And then he will be king, ruler of the heavens and the Nine Realms.

His mother is sitting on Hlidskjalf, her gaze faraway and golden. He wants to reach out to her, touch her one last time. 

Suddenly the members of the council gasp and point at her: There are tears on Frigga's face, flowing out of unseeing eyes. Like the light in them, her tears seem to be made from molten gold, flowing over her white face.

Loki lets his hand sink. Not once has anyone seen her cry on Hlidskjalf. She sees all of the universe, into every corner of every world and the Nine Realms, into Hel and Valhalla and she sees not only the past and the present but also the future, the tomorrow. The gift, which Loki has at times, without success, attempted to master by using dark magic, is part of her _very fabric_.

She turns her head to direct her gaze at him, and it burns like the fires of Muspellheim. She opens her mouth, and he cannot understand the language in which she speaks, knows that she speaks in a thousand tongues, in all known languages at once, and her voice is not like the voice he remembers, not soft and melodic but a sharp, cutting ray of light piercing through his very being.

Thor clasps Loki’s hand. To comfort him, or to seek comfort, Loki doesn’t know. A roaring noise swells like a storm, swallowing every other sound. Odin looks at Frigga, and Loki knows that she speaks to him in his mind. 

“I cannot hear you, mother,” he thinks desperately.

And then suddenly, absolute silence fills him.

“You do not listen, my child,” he hears Frigga’s voice clear and golden and pure in his mind. “Your heart is darkness, your soul is in chaos. Live, and learn to truly see and to listen, and then, when the time comes, you shall return to us.” 

“Mother, I beg you,” Loki says, but then the silence ends, and Frigga is not with him any longer.

Odin raises his arms. The light flows towards him, into him. He speaks the sacred, words of the ancient spell to send them, him and Thor, from Asgard.

The last thing Loki sees is Odin and Frigga on Hlidskjalf, enveloped in light, smiling at him through her tears.

He closes his eyes. 

There are no words left in him, none. 

When he opens his eyes again, held firmly by Thor, he is not surprised to find himself on the roof top of Stark Tower, close to the spot where only a few weeks ago he had opened the portal.

Earth smells like dirt. Filth, death, decay. This place is full of death, in a state of perpetual decay.

Once to be his kingdom and his glory, it is now his prison, the place he will be chained to until he dies a mortal death. 

Stark Tower is crawling with armed men in dark armor, their guns trained on him. Helicopters fly above him and when he lifts his head a white floodlight blinds him.

Men in suits and black sunglasses approach him. The noise is infernal. Maybe the entire trial had been a magical dream concocted by Odin and he's being banished to Hel?

Fury is here, standing behind Stark's newly reinforced panorama glass, his expression inscrutable and worried at the same time. Stark is present as well, in his metal armor, hovering over the helicopter pad.

Loki feels the pressure of the air, the sharp wind. The weight of the armor he is wearing seems to have tripled. As he stumbles, Thor takes his arm to support him, then seems to understand and takes off the metal plates.

“These are too heavy,” he murmurs and with an expression of grief he also removes the helmet.

Meanwhile the men have reached them and order Thor to step away. They build a circle around Loki, their guns trained on him. One of them pulls him up, shackle him first with handcuffs, then attach ankle cuffs as well.

Without a word they lead him away from Thor, and Loki knows better than to try to fight them. Even walking is a physical, exhausting effort. Once Loki is in the mansion, Ironman lands on the platform and lets himself be disassembled by his AI.

Finally Stark is in his black t-shirt and jeans. Fury has not moved away from the window, but is eyeing Loki warily.

Stark smiles.

“You look like someone who needs a drink,” he says.

The first day he is interrogated (again) by various people. Some of them come with pen and paper, some of them with recording devices and some with other electronic devices, that Loki identifies as iPads. (Barton has shown him one, back then in Stuttgart.) The questions are almost the same, but Loki answers all of them patiently.

In the next days a number of different teams arrive at the tower. They examine and test him, ask him question after question. The temperature in his cell changes constantly to test his ability to withstand heat or extreme cold. He is being deprived of sleep, of food, of water.

He remembers that they tried that last time too, only last time he was still Aesir and had not the human need of sleep or food or water. This time though he begins to hallucinate, hears voices, loses track of time.

Now is not the time to be difficult. He must bide his time. He understands the unspoken promise, that if he behaves he'll get more freedom, will be granted more privileges, and so he collaborates. 

When they test his physical strength, he nearly breaks his collar bones. Injuries that used to heal within minutes now take days to fade. They measure his heart rate as they put him on a treadmill. 

They strip him naked and take pictures, which leaves Loki trembling with rage, but he can't prevent it. The medical team has at that point lost most of their fear of him and while they treat him politely they disregard his protests. They do inject him with something that soothes him a little, makes him tired and dazed, so they can spread his legs to take photographs of his genitals and orifices, of every inch of his body, then put him into a long metallic tube, where a machine scans his brain. 

Generally, he notices, his interrogators are trained well enough to be cautious, but they can't avoid liking him. He takes care to appear friendly, even a little shy now and then.

Finally Fury seems to be happy and and Loki is allowed to leave his cell, although he is still required to wear a heavy collar, handcuffs and ankle cuffs.

They move him to a larger cell. One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents explains everything as if he doesn't know what a TV is, what a DVD player is. They treat him like a dangerous halfwit. 

_"If you want to see something else, you press the button with the phone symbol on it."_

The cell isn't surrounded by glass like his prison on the helicarrier was. His new temporary prison has a (reinforced) glass wall too, but it only divides the room into two parts. There is some privacy though. The lower part of the partition is made from steel, and the corner where the shower and the bathroom are located is hidden by a low projection so his modesty is protected whenever he uses the facilities.

A few days later a meeting is scheduled. Thor tells him the night before, and Loki hates how the first thing that comes to his mind is that he'll see Agent Barton.

At the meeting the Avengers are quiet, eyeing him with a mixture of distrust and pity. Fury does most of the talking, almost insulting in his repeated claim that Loki is now harmless and tame.

The Russian _whore_ looks at him with wide eyes. He doesn't let himself be deceived, not again. Now he knows that her talent lies in displaying an expression that lets her opponent think she is scared or vulnerable while really she is lying in wait for her prey, the _bitch_.

Does she think he'll fall for this again?

Captain America's expression displays more pity than anything else. He'll be the first to work on, Loki thinks. He is lost, lonely in a world alien to him. He'll be easy to befriend and influence. He may even identify with Loki.

Iron Man. 

Stark with his dark eyes and his jokes. He thinks he is being wary but Loki knows that Stark is as curious as a cat inside. He'll want to know all about Loki, from his Asgardian past to his Jotun heritage. He'll be intrigued by the heat, filthy mortal. Well, Loki can play the canary for him, and lure Stark in.

Nick Fury and Maria Hill, the soldiers. 

They will be the hardest to trick: they're not imaginative enough. He knows that Fury is not easy to deceive, except by himself. Like Odin, Fury believes himself to be driven by a sheer endless compassion for those he vowed to protect, but has not realized that this compassion died a long time ago, replaced by a will to maintain discipline and a stubborn insistence on standing his ground. Against what–who knows? 

Hill is not as smart as her boss, but her loyalty is unwavering. She would die for S.H.I.E.L.D. and Fury and it runs too deep. She might be lonely at night, doubtful at times, but in the end she is too good at turning her back on her own doubts. She regards him with hatred. Ah. Coulson. Did she let him fuck her? Loki the god would have loved to play with her, to unravel her, bit by bit, until she was naked in every sense, but the human Loki is only wary of her. She could kill him with a flick of her wrist.

Who is he kidding? Everyone in this room could kill him with a flick of their wrists. His reflexes are so slow, they'd squash him like a bug before he could even get through the door.

 _Finally_ Barton arrives, wearing sunglasses and a disdainful grimace. The tension in the room rises incrementally as he takes his seat beside Romanova. Whenever he looks into Loki's direction a vertical line appears on his forehead.

While Fury talks and talks, Barton is silent, sitting ramrod straight. He is dressed in his leather gear, wearing protectors and his bow, and carries his arrows, all of them rigged of course. 

Loki can smell him, his delicious Alpha smell. It makes him want to fall down onto his hands and knees and push his arse up, begging Barton to take him. He wants to let his legs fall apart and present himself.

Barton doesn't look at him. He stares straight ahead like the soldier he is, ignoring him completely. Finally he talks, and the Avengers argue. Loki doesn't care much for the discussion; Fury and Thor are the decision-makers, and the decision has been made. Nothing Barton says will change that. 

He wonders if Barton senses the Omega in him, if some unnamed, unknown instinct recognizes him. Barton seems to be uncomfortable, tense. Then suddenly he rises, slams his hand on the table and storms out, and without even thinking Loki rises too, his body yearning to follow him, but of course the ankle cuffs hinder him and he falls. There is a moment, an eternity in Loki's mind, where he is on his damned knees, the chair on top of him like a surreal cage as he struggles to get up. The beast, Bruce Banner, steps forward and unceremoniously pulls him back up.

Loki curses himself, curses Barton, curses everyone. He could swear Hill is smirking.

"What the hell was that for?" Stark mutters.

Romanov and Rogers blink. 

Fury gazes at him for a long time, then decides not to say anything about it. Instead he calls security, who open the ankle cuffs so he can stand up. Banner looks at his collar and the handcuffs with a strange expression that Loki realizes is disgust. He files that away for later use. (Also the fact that Banner was the first one to help him up: that will be useful too.)

There are cameras everywhere, as Fury points out. He also tells Loki that the building is under constant surveillance and armed units are patrolling the corridors of Stark Tower, especially the corridors close to his room, but also the area around the tower. His room will be searched at irregular intervals. 

Fury demonstrates the trappings of his cell but also tells him, that once the evaluation is finalized, he’ll be provided with a flat in Stark Tower. He seems almost apologetic, as if he wants to make up for Barton's outburst.

An uncomfortable deja vu moment for both of them, but none mention their previous encounter on the helicarrier. Of course the dynamic is entirely different now. Loki is subdued and Fury seems evasive, strangely fidgety, as if he can't get away from him soon enough, despite knowing very well how defenceless Loki is in his current state.

It seems, thinks Loki, that Fury would rather have him a powerful nemesis than a powerless prisoner. Fury knows only how to interact with threats and combat situations. 

One press of a button on a remote control and steel walls come crashing down around them. Vents open and Fury tells him that gas can be released that will incapacitate him within seconds should he attempt to leave the premises. This time though Fury refrains from snarky comments, and Loki doesn't challenge him either, although it does cross his mind that they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble if if they'd had that gas ready for his first imprisonment.

The final humiliation is when they place the trackers on him: The first is tiny, one of Stark's achievements in nanotechnology, a microscopic transmitter embedded in a silicone gel cushion injected by syringe into his neck. Once injected, Stark explains, it will travel through his arteries, steered by a S.H.I.E.L.D programme and Loki will never know where it is at any given time. He wouldn't be able to remove it in the first place, since the tracker is smaller than a pin head. To learn the location of the tracker Loki would have to gain access to S.H.I.E.L.D’s computers, but should such an unlikely case arise, the device would immediately be navigated into the blood vessels in his brain, and Loki would be dead before he even got to the door. Or if not dead, then severely brain-damaged.

 

The heat takes him by surprise. 

It's only his third week on Earth, and his instincts, perhaps confused by the loss of magic, by the different atmosphere of Earth, by the sudden proximity to his mate, demand that he be taken.

He wakes up on the floor, tangled in sheets, moaning. 

A team of doctors come in, two good-looking males and a woman, who seems to be in charge. Her name tag reads "Dr. Valerie Cooper".

Then Banner arrives. Although they try to calm him, lifting him up onto the bed and immediately injecting him with something that brings his heart rate down, all of them seem slightly panicked, which doesn't comfort Loki. 

He'd like to be treated by people who know what they're doing and who are in control, but the whole lot seem to be out of their depth here, including Banner, the monster.

Loki follows Banner's movements with feverish eyes. His entire body clenches in fear, but Banner avoids looking at him and seems to want to keep his distance.

"We're administering something that should calm you down," the woman, Dr. Cooper, says. She finally looks at Loki. "It's a combination of morphine and neuroleptica for now. Should knock you out and give you some rest." From the expression on her face, he gathers she doesn't like it.

She inhales. Her pupils are dilated, and her hand lingers on Loki's cheek bones. He presses his face into her cool palm and parts his lips. The way her cheeks are flushed, he bets she is wet underneath her proper white coat.

Oh, he needs to be touched. 

He gives her a lazy, half-lidded look and she stares at him, dazed. Then, as if waking from a dream, she shakes her head and steps away from him.

Banner moves as if in trance, approaching cautiously and opening the foil of an injection needle. He flicks his finger against the soft skin on the underside of Loki’s arm and Loki bites his lower lip.

Cooper takes his arm and looks closely at him.

"Do you feel that too, Bruce?"

Banner nods. "Pheromones.”

There is something wild in his eyes, and Loki doesn't like it.

"Powerful," Cooper says.

Banner gives her a dry smile, but there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Loki licks his lips, just to test the waters, and Banner looks at him, mesmerized. Still, he manages to tell Cooper in a calm voice, "If you're too affected, you may leave."

"If we could bottle and synthesize that stuff, we'd be rich," Cooper scoffs. "No way, I am not leaving an ex-Norse god, who is an intersexed, fertile alien, alone with you.”

Banner grimaces, then presses the needle into Loki's skin. As Loki watches his own blood swirl into the syringe, his eyes droop. The lust and craving, torturing him, weakens. It's not gone, but at least he can lie still and breathe and not go mad.

"Good," he mumbles with a sigh of relief.

"You might be resistant to addiction, but it seems you are, beside your sex organs, completely human. You may come to prefer to copulate once a month with a suitable mate. That would relieve your symptoms, correct?" Cooper asks.

"Temporarily, " Loki confirms. "Are you offering yourself, Dr. Cooper?"

He deliberately licks his lips, then bares his teeth at Cooper, but disappointingly she only frowns, then her forehead creases. "Oh, I was under the impression you prefer to copulate with males. The brief explaining your condition and your heritage mentioned your preferences."

He wants to strangle her but instead leers at her; "I am an omnivore." 

Banner looks at him, uneasiness in his features, then turns back to Cooper. "Loki is not able to consent to sexual intercourse. As far as I can see, the monthly … er, attacks eliminate his free will. We are obliged to rebuild his ability to exercise free will, which a proper treatment will do."

"Addiction to high-grade morphine injections also greatly reduces his ability to exercise free will," Cooper sneers. 

Banner shakes his head. 

Loki bristles at the way they talk about him, as if he isn't in the same room with them, but he can't really be bothered to protest. He is floating in his cocoon of bliss, at least finding some measure of relief.

As they are leaving, Loki can hear the woman murmur "Fascinating" to Banner, who replies with "Really? I find it quite frightening."

The door shuts and Loki is alone. He curls up on his bed. 

Finally he can sleep … and he dreams about Barton.

In the dream Barton is comes to his cell, tense, shivering and needy. The cell door opens (conveniently there is no glass separation in the dream), and Barton immediately crowds him, pushes him against the wall and enters him, grunting and moaning. Of course Loki puts up no resistance. Instead he pulls Barton against himself, presses every part of his body flush against him. 

They kiss, and Barton murmurs constant “I love you”s into his ear, and Loki's heart soars.

"I need you," Barton whispers against his skin. "I love you."

In the dream Loki understands _exactly_ what love is. It's not alien, unknown, but a thing of astonishing, liberating clarity. It flows through him and he marvels at the lightness of it.

Abruptly he wakes up, a telltale wetness between his legs, sweating and breathing hard. At first he can't explain the strange happiness he feels, but then more details of the dream come back to his mind. 

How Barton told him that he loves him, and how his dream-self soaked this declaration up, filled with pathetic gratitude.

(Upon the realisation that it's all only a dream, he feels he is falling and his heart is crumbling, and for a moment there is nothing he can do to fight this feeling.)

It helps him to take an ice-cold shower, then get dressed in his new Midgardian clothes, which are ugly and bland. He looks at himself in the mirror, the pale, narrow face, the features that his mother always described as beautiful. His eyes are glassy.

A human now, almost a human. He still has the memories of Asgard, memories of things these mortals can't even dream of. He still remembers the stars, the universe, the planets he has seen, the realms he has wandered. What magic he had created. The powers he used to hold. 

He turns away from the mirror.

At seven o'clock a voice through the intercom asks if he wants breakfast. Immediately his stomach begins to grumble. When he affirms the question, the guard rattles off a list of breakfast choices and Loki picks salmon, eggs benedict and hot tea.

After a while a guard enters the room, a young, blond man with pink skin and hazel eyes, accompanied by another guard. Loki knows that two other guards are outside, with their guns drawn. The young guard moves slowly and nervously, and just to unnerve him, Loki remains seated on his bed, unmoving, with his eyes following the man's movements like a cat.

The man places a tray of food on the table in front of him, then presses a button. A small flap opens and the tray is pushed into Loki's cell.

When the guard dares to glance at Loki, Loki smiles thinly and cruelly.

The guard flees.

The rest of the day he spends in nervousness. 

He tries to exercise but is discouraged by this body's weakness. Human bones are so brittle and the tissue is so soft. When he accidentally bruises a knuckle on the iron frame of his bed, the bruise stays. Even after hours, the skin is purple and a mark has built. He can't stop looking at it, scratching at it. Every time he picks at it, he hopes that it'll suddenly begin healing the way he is used to.

Finally he falls into a light sleep and wakes up in the early morning, naked, masturbating. His thin pyjama pants are tangled around his ankles. He can't resist any longer, he is too far gone. The palm of his hand is pressed against wet, throbbing folds, two fingers deep inside him. 

He knows the camera is on, but it's too late to stop. He is too close.

Already he is clenching rhythmically, and he is gasping, his eyes closed, shivering. Oh, it feels good, but it's not enough, it can't be enough, not ever … and suddenly Clint Barton is lying on top of him, pushing inside him, his cock a perfect fit, and then Loki comes, gasping.

Minutes after that orgasm he is still shuddering and spasming, as if he's having a seizure. His skin feels sensitive and he's covered in sweat. 

Finally he pulls himself up and cleans himself with a wad of tissues. He stares at the ceiling.

He wonders how many have seen this little scene. It's too late for shame or embarrassment, but Loki can't help it. 

Several minutes later he is shivering again, cold sweat on his face. He arches up, legs spread. It's not over. 

He curses, bites his lips, digs his nails into the sweat-soaked bedding. Soon enough he can't stand it any longer and begins to finger himself again, his eyes closed.

The only thing that alleviates his suffering is thinking about Barton fucking him, filling him up. He gets onto his knees, rocks himself onto his fingers, his face pressed into the pillow. 

When he comes for the third time, shuddering through an unsatisfying, physically exhausting orgasm, he can hear steps in the corridor, then someone punching in the code to open the door.

Barton.


	10. You Win Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have warned for Intersexed!Loki in my tags but I feel I should repeat it here. My Loki is a boy but he has lady bits. (Does he even identify as a male? Maybe he or Asgard or Norse Gods are beyond human gender roles?)
> 
> Also I'd like to warn for mention of monthly periods and blood. I don't think I am very graphic, and I don't dwell on it, but I do mention it. 
> 
> Apologies!
> 
> I'd also like to say that although in the short term things don't get much better for Loki, this fic has a happy ending. I don't want to spoil you, but just saying. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this, commenting and giving me Kudos! I really, really do appreciate it and you all make me incredibly happy!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thank you, wonderluck, so very much for your perfect work! <3! (All remaining mistakes are mine!)

Barton is wearing mirrored sunglasses, dark pants, and a t-shirt. The smell from outside clings to him: grass and earth and sweat. He can smell him even through the little air holes in the glass. 

Loki inhales him hungrily. Under normal circumstances he knows he'd be repulsed by that vulgar, blunt Midgardian scent, the sharpness of it, but now he cannot get enough. It's like a drug, and he realizes that his lips are parted.

Everything in him screams for him to cover himself up, to keep a modicum of dignity, but he simply … can't. The pulsing want between his legs is nearly unbearable, the need to be filled and fucked. He remains on the bed, naked, arching his back, displaying himself. 

Barton doesn't say a word when he keys in the door code for the partition. The door swings open, and for a moment he just stands there and looks down at Loki writhing on the bed. 

Then he clenches his fists, pulls a chair up and sits down, removes his glasses. Loki thinks he can see his hands trembling.

Barton appears painfully real in Loki's vision: the red of his knuckles, the blunt fingers, the bluish vein on his forearm, the strong collar bones to the skin folds of his neck, slick with a sheen of sweat. The rest of the cell is a blur, a wash of white and yellow.

And yet, Loki knows that Barton is not unaffected. He can smell his Alpha's arousal. He feels Barton's want, but he is not entirely sure, if Barton is aware of it. And if Barton is aware of it, to what degree?

If Barton is not aware of it, would this not be a good thing? Something that Loki can exploit, use to his advantage?

He steals a glance at the camera and sees that it's turned off. Briefly he wonders if Barton simply asked the guards to turn it off (he remembers that Barton had a talent for making people do things for him; he inspired loyalty) or if he hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D's security. 

He doesn't have time to think too much on it, as a renewed wave of heat rolls over him and pulls him under. 

He is wet. 

Loki, now devoid of any shame, spreads his legs and fucks himself with long, pale fingers, looking beseechingly at Barton, begging him silently with every movement. A part of him is horrified at what he is doing, but he cannot control it any longer. He is in heat, and his Alpha is here in the same room with him.

When Barton doesn't move, Loki slides off the bed and walks towards him. He kneels before Barton, between his spread legs. From what Loki can see, Barton is hard, his cock bulging in his pants, straining against the fabric. He is breathing heavily, sweating, hands clenched on the arm rests.

It should not be difficult to seduce him. He is nearly vibrating with tension. He touches Barton's knees, while looking into his impassive face.

He moves to touch his bulge, but Barton takes his wrist, twists his arm.

"No," he says, his teeth clenched. His eyes are wide.

Loki blinks incredulously, the need in him burning, driving him to beg.

"You want it," he whispers. His thighs are slick with his want. His nipples are swollen and hard, begging to be licked and sucked.

How can Barton resist? How can he _not_ want?

Barton looks dazed and, his grip on Loki's wrist loosens for a moment.

"The smell … you smell … so sweet …" Barton says, distracted. Loki sees his pupils dilate—a thing of beauty. 

"Yes," he whispers, nearly delirious with the prospect of getting what he wants. What he _needs_. Barton is _that_ close.

"I don't want anything of you," Barton hisses, and pushes him off, although the inky darkness of his gaze, so different from the usual distant storm grey of his eyes, betrays him. 

"Come now," Loki says softly. "No one will fault you for using me. It's your right. You know that."

He can feel his Jotun instincts moving underneath his skin, taking over.

Barton stares at him, listening, unmoving, and Loki closes his eyes, swallows to control the flaming need in his body. He can feel the fire crackling in his veins. His cunt is throbbing, yearning for Barton's cock.

"You still harbor resentment against me," he tries to tempt Barton. "Take it out on me then. Get your revenge. You need this."

When Barton doesn't move or say anything, Loki crawls closer again, carefully laying his hands on Barton's thighs. Everything in him is pulsing, demanding need. There is no time for subtlety. He presses his mouth against the bulge, and nearly moans, hears Barton inhaling sharply and pushing upwards. 

"Let me make amends," he breathes, gazing at Barton from under lowered lashes. "Let me submit to you. _Take what you want, Barton._ "

Barton swallows thickly, but seems frozen, resigned. 

Loki slithers up, basking in the heat of Barton's body, hands on his trousers to unzip him.

This time Barton yanks him away with his fingers tangled in his hair and the shame and humiliation of being dragged away like an errant dog lets Loki hiss in fury.

Barton tosses him onto the bed, pulls the chair closer, then opens his zip and pulls out a stiff cock, long and impressively thick. Loki realizes he has licked his lips when he hears Barton's forced laugh.

"So, is this what you want?" he mocks Loki, stroking his cock.

When Barton's fingers play with the shaft, then squeeze the blunt, spongy head, a drop of clear precum wells up at the tip. Loki cannot suppress another wanton moan, shivering and trembling with desire.

"You want that inside you?" Barton asks softly. Another slow stroke. 

Loki is too full of desire by now to deny it, but he can hear the hoarseness of Barton's voice.

"Show me how much you want it," Barton taunts him. "Give me a show."

Loki tries to fight the effect Barton's voice has on him but approaches him again, on all fours, this time, climbing onto his lap and straddling him. For one sweet moment he feels the tip of Barton's cock entering his cunt, and it greedily clenches around it. Barton's moan is loud, almost a growl and his eyes flutter shut, but before Loki can slide down, take all of this beautiful, hard cock, Barton pushes him away again, throws him off and onto the floor.

They both are breathing heavily.

"Look how hard you are for me," Loki says, when he thinks he can speak again. "You need this."

Barton closes his eyes, gets up. 

"From where I stand," Barton says, "you need this more. You're the bitch in heat, gagging for it … not me."

His eyes are glassy though, and his hand movements uncoordinated. Loki glances up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, letting his tongue dart out then biting his lower lip. 

He knows what Barton likes. Men like Barton who were running since they were children, and never really stopped, never stopped feeling haunted and chased, want to dominate. They want to feel in control because it's the one thing in life they never had. 

Outwardly Barton seems uncaring, indifferent and thus invincible, but Loki knows that the feeling of power arouses him. And shouldn't the feeling of power over Loki of all men be irresistible to Barton?

Maybe Loki can achieve more if he gives more, yields. If control, or the illusion of control, is what Barton needs to feel safe, why not give it to him?

"Yes," Loki says softly, "I need you. I do."

Barton's gaze rests briefly on Loki's shoulders, his bowed head, then wanders to the parted lips. His hands are balled to fists, holding himself back.

"No," he breathes. He shakes his head, then even raises his fists to his head and presses them against his temples, as if staving off a migraine. When he looks again at Loki, who smiles up at him, undulating his hips, spreading his legs, he steps back again until he is pressed against the glass wall.

Loki can't let him go. 

If Barton leaves now, who knows when he'll come back? He crawls closer to him, and before Barton can move, Loki lays his hands onto Barton's thighs and licks that heavy, bobbing cock.

A warm, wet rush of heat goes through him, and he opens his mouth wide, lets it slide in, fill him. It's heavenly thick and Loki moans around it, edging closer. It feels so good to suck it, almost as good as to be fucked with it. When Barton grabs the back of his head and begins to fuck his mouth, Loki begins to finger himself, pushing rhythmically into his hot, squeezing cunt.

"Fuck," Barton breathes, and Loki smiles around his mouthful, doubling his efforts, sucking as hard as he can. He greedily swallows the precum, savoring the salty taste, the slippery texture. He tongues the slit for more, whining.

"Stop, no," Barton says weakly, and tries to pull out, his eyes squeezed shut, but Loki is too close and he pulls Barton closer, pushes him even deeper so that his face is buried in Barton's stomach.

"No," Barton says, but he too is too far-gone, and Loki simply sucks harder, and when Barton's cock twitches, he swallows around it, humming. He is fucking himself on his fingers, moving up and down, and then as he feels Barton moving faster and that cock getting even harder, he pushes his wet, slicked index finger into his ass and continues to fuck his cunt with his middle and ring finger, and now it's _perfect._

Barton still struggles, weakly though, and Loki pushes his cock mercilessly down his throat, ignoring his own gag reflex, strengthening his grip on Barton and pushing him further against the wall. 

Barton lets out a hoarse, wailing cry, and comes, shuddering, bending over as if in pain.

As Loki tastes the salty flood of Barton's come he comes too, swallowing and lapping up everything Barton has to give, moaning.

Exhausted, he lets go of Barton, pushes him away, grimacing and leans back against his bed. Barton, as if he has no will on his own left, slides down the glass wall, his eyes open but unseeing.

He looks forlorn like the child Loki has once seen in his memories, lost. He is still breathing heavily, his chest heaving. His face is ashen.

"What … what is hap—?" he tries to speak, but breaks off, his voice refusing to work.

It is in this moment that Loki fully understands that Barton really knows nothing. Why he came, why he opened the door, why he let all of this happen: Barton has no idea. He does not know why he does what he is doing. He cannot see the bond that connects him with Loki, cannot see or understand the power he has over him.

And it is in this moment that Loki sees that if he plays his game right, Barton will never need to know.

Slowly he smiles, crouching closer to Barton who seems to want to flee.

"Yes, Agent Barton," he whispers, "you are still mine. You always were, and you always will be."

Barton suddenly shoots up, stumbles to the toilet and starts retching. 

Loki forces himself to laugh. He must not show any weakness now.

"You were never free," he says. "You belong to me. Do you understand?"

Barton continues to retch, to heave into the toilet bowl, and finally when he is only wheezing he turns around and leaves the cell. 

Grimacing, Loki gets up and flushes the toilet, then takes a long, hot shower. He is still on edge; his nipples are hard and sensitive, his cock half-hard, his cunt still clenches when he brushes his fingers against the folds, but at least he feels more in control than before. 

After his shower he languidly dries himself, then lies naked on the bed. The camera is on again, but he doesn't care. 

He smiles.

_He is at the sea, looking out on jade colored waters. The sky is a pale ivory with a faint golden sheen, like the sky in Asgard. He looks down and sees that his feet are bare, toes dug into squishy, wet sand, white sea foam licking at his skin._

_The air tastes cold, smells of storm._

_When he looks up, Thor is standing beside him in the water. He is silent, but then turns around and waves at someone, only there is no one. He opens his mouth and calls out to someone, but Loki cannot hear him._

_"Who are you waving to?" Loki asks, but Thor doesn't hear him, just waves merrily, his mouth wide open, grinning, the wind whipping his hair around his face. Thor doesn't see him, doesn't hear him. To him, Loki is but a ghost._

_Loki looks where Thor is staring and can't see anything: only the sand and the water, but the waters have darkened now, and onyx waves lap at the beach and the sky is a starless indigo._

He wakes up to the sharp smell of blood, his skin sticky with sweat and the sheets sticking to his groin. When he moves there is a slight twinge of pain in his lower abdomen. He looks down and sees blood. 

His body is reminding him that he has a uterus. Charming.

Slowly he stretches the kinks out of his limbs, his spine producing strange cracking noises, then gets up and takes a shower. 

One of the younger doctors enters, puts a paper bag onto the table. When he retrieves it, he finds wads of cotton, painkillers, and fresh underwear.

At the sight of a box of tampons he nearly laughs. Of course, since he has no magic left to suppress his menses, he might as well use them. The bleeding is stronger than he had expected, the pain makes him nauseous, even with the painkillers. 

When he looks at his own reflection in his mirror, he is dismayed to find his belly protruding a little. 

He has a "final briefing" with Fury, Banner and Stark. Thor is in Europe visiting Jane Foster. Captain America is on a different mission, somewhere in Africa.

The Black Widow and Barton are on a mission ( _together_ , which angers Loki a great deal).

They could have held that briefing without him—he merely sits behind his glass partition and watches Banner, Stark and Fury go through pages and pages of evaluations. 

Only every ten or fifteen minutes do they ask him a question, but it's only to confirm or clarify something the report states. He tries not to feel disappointment about Barton not being with them, but he can't prevent a sharp, impatient tone creeping into his voice.

In the end Fury tells him that he won't be restricted to this tiny cell any longer. The glass partition will be removed and the entire floor will be his apartment—and his prison.

For now he'll be confined to Floor 13, but Fury hints that if the next evaluations are as good as this one, he'll be permitted to leave the tower for limited periods of time.

The same day, men in blue work overalls arrive and begin to remove the glass partition. Strangely instead of relief he feels … trepidation. Only hesitantly he follows Stark who insists on walking Loki through the apartment, ventures out of the cell to inspect the rest of the floor.

It looks much like Tony Stark's apartment, sans the bar and the rooftop terrace. Each room has at least one camera on the ceiling. Stark knocks at the windows at some point and remarks that not even an Asgardian god could break those.

Loki doesn't think that warrants a reply.

"You were decidedly more communicative when you tried to take over Earth," Stark says at one point.

Rather than pointing out the security measures (like Fury), Stark shows off the apartment's many amenities. A lot of his bragging is an attempt to pry information about Asgard, but Loki remains silent.

"Are you okay?" Stark finally asks. 

The question first startles, then infuriates Loki.

"I am kept like an animal and you dare ask me if I am _okay_?" he asks, incredulous. "Every day people come by, gawking and pawing at me like visitors in a zoo, and you—"

"Oh, that," Stark interrupts him with a dismissive hand gesture, "compared to other idiots who tried to take over the world, you're living in luxury. The prison in The Hague, where you really should be, is not as comfortable, let me tell you. I am asking about the physical issues. I understand that you're not as human as the report from Asgard wants us to believe."

He smiles.

"You'll receive medical treatment, and Banner and Cooper will continue to seek a solution for your … issues," Stark says, "but I have a question for you."

Loki senses what he wants to ask.

"So, we know that you have something called a "mate." A partner, pre-destined for you by the fate or the universe. And although Thor was not very forthcoming with information, he told us that your mate is human, which is why they sent you here."

"What is your question?" 

"Do you know who he or she is?"

Strange, how for a split second Loki feels an overwhelming urge to confess, but thankfully he reigns himself in before he opens his mouth.

"No," he says. "I have no idea." 

Stark mulls this over. "How does that make sense?" 

Loki blinks.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong, but what that Jotun brief says about your er, mating habits, is that you always _know_ your mate, right? Mostly your mate is someone you already know, not some random stranger you’ve never seen before. How could it even work otherwise?" 

Loki wishes that this infernal man would just leave.

"It must be someone you met," Stark says. "Someone you know."

"I am not a … Jotun," Loki says coldly. "I might have Jotun blood in me, but I have been raised differently. There are many factors that don't apply to me when it comes to making assumptions about my health issues."

He must not get nervous. He keeps his gaze straight at Stark's face.

"I see," Stark muses, "so the fact that your first heat is triggered by your mate is not applicable to you either? I read that in the brief too."

A hot and cold shiver runs over Loki's spine. 

"It's not a fact; it's folklore," he says dismissively.

Stark thankfully lets the topic rest. Jarvis calls him to the workshop, so he has to leave, but Loki remains nervous and on edge for hours after that. 

He explores the apartment, learns how to operate the electronic devices, tries to distract himself with the computer. 

This is the first night he sleeps in a large bed, in a room with a view of Manhattan. It's almost like staying in a luxury hotel, with the only exception that the moment he tries to leave the tower he'd be killed instantly.

He'd had worse.

He can't find sleep. The sheets smell of artificial vanilla. The bed is too big, the mattress too soft. 

He pushes the button, demands water, sleeping pills, and hisses at the guard to hurry.

The guard returns swiftly, avoiding his eyes, looking anywhere but Loki's face. It's the young guard who used to work here when Loki was still in the cell.

He must have seen something, if not everything, by the way he flushes. What a sweet little boy, Loki thinks.

"I require assistance," he says suddenly, suppressing the irritated tone of his voice.

The guard looks at him, startled. 

"My hands are shaking," Loki lies. 

The guard's eyes dart to the door, then to the cameras, and back to Loki again. He is licking his lips, and Loki knows he has him.

"I'm not really allowed to do this," he says, slightly stuttering. "I'm not allowed to come near you, except for emergency—"

"Only your friends are watching, right? They won't say anything," Loki says silkily, putting as much persuasive power into his voice as possible. 

The guard reacts as if he is hypnotized. "They'll … understand."

"Of course they will. I just want to sleep," Loki coaxes him. "I am so … restless." 

He looks at the guard, licking his lips, and the man shivers.

Something in the guard's eyes changes: they become darker, larger, hungrier. He points a gun at Loki.

"I know you're dangerous," he says. "Sit back, your arms and hands where I can see them."

Loki smiles and obediently lifts his hands.

The guard approaches him, and he sits back in his bed. He spreads his legs invitingly, leaning against the wall, and when the guard is close enough—so careless, so trusting—Loki grasps his wrists and pulls him close. There is no resistance.

"Fuck," the guard curses softly, but his expression shows Loki that he knows he is defeated.

He hesitates for a moment and throws another glance at the camera. Suddenly, with a fervor that delights Loki, he begins to pull his clothes off. Then he does something that throws Loki off for a moment.

"I'm Matt," he says.

"What?" Loki is confused. "What … is matte?"

"My name. It's Matt." Unnecessarily, the guard points at his own chest.

Not sure how he has to react to his, Loki lies back and spreads his legs.

The guard stares at him with an unmistakable expression of sheer greed. He tugs at Loki's hard cock, then presses a thumb to his clit and Loki lets his head fall back.

_Oh, yes._

So good when someone else touches you. 

"Fuck, I have no idea if I'm gay or straight or what," the guard—Matt—murmurs, then dives down and licks at Loki's clit and then up his slim, rock hard shaft. 

Loki wishes the man would be silent, but his confusion is somewhat endearing. 

While the guard is pulling at his cock, he is licking at his folds, rhythmically pressing his tongue against the clit until Loki is moaning loudly. Finally the man crawls up between Loki's legs and strokes his own cock, showing off the thick, blunt shaft—proud of it, no doubt, but also curiously shy, the way young men can be. Suddenly the sight of this stranger is too much to bear. 

Without a word, Loki turns around and presents himself. 

The guard caresses him with a heavy, large hand on his buttocks, then presses his cock into him, and Loki exhales in pleasure. It's not … it's not perfect, by any means, but at least right now he can very well imagine Barton behind him, impatient, urgent, holding his hips and pushing into him. He'd suppress his grunts, which would sound a little angry. Barton always carries his anger around like a shield, and even in bed he wouldn't let go of it.

The man's cock behind him is almost too big, too thick, but then Loki grips his own cock and with his other hand massages his clit, face buried in his pillow, and pushes back against the guard. It's good … it's almost good. 

Through his haze he hears the door being opened. In his half-crazed state he doesn't care if anyone sees him. Then two other men, who Loki identifies as guards, are standing there.

The shorter one opens his trousers, and Loki nearly laughs with relief. 

His blond guard, who froze in shock first at seeing his comrades, takes up his relentless fucking when he sees that his friends don't intend to interrupt but to join in.

It's all a little like a dream; unreal, and above all, surreal. There is still a part in Loki's mind that can't quite believe he is doing what he is doing. And yet, he reaches out for the man next to him, pulls his cock out of his underwear and starts stroking him. When the man pushes the head of his cock against his lips he opens obediently, not even minding the insults the men heap on him. He only wants to suck that hard cock, wants it to fuck his mouth, and make him swallow. 

The blond one, Matt, moves onto the bed, and pulls Loki on top of him. The third guard, a tall, lanky guy who rarely speaks, begins fingering his cunt, coating his fingers with his juices, as Loki realizes he feels a finger pressing inside his ass. He can feel that the guy doesn't do it very often, but it doesn't matter to him. He can bear a little pain.

Finally he feels a cock being pushed against his hole, and he feels with every fibre how much he needs that. 

"Please," he says in a rough, pleading voice he doesn't recognize.

Laughing, the man pushes inside. Loki screams, and yet the pain feels so good, pushes him out of the heated daze he's in, and pulls him onto another plateau of his lust. Within mere moments Loki comes, spilling some seed onto the guard below him. The two men continue fucking him, finding their rhythm, and every time they push in, Loki feels his core melting. 

He lets the cock he's sucking on slip out of his mouth. "Harder," he eggs on the panting man behind him. The man obeys instantly and fucks into him, grunting. The other man pushes his cock back between his lips. 

Then the man behind him shifts and his cock hits that perfect angle, and Loki shudders through a second orgasm. He whines around his mouthful of cock, taking it even deeper.

The next one to come is the man fucking his arse. He can feel the cock twitching and jerking inside him, coating him with hot seed. The blond guard underneath him loses his rhythm and pounds into him, reaching up with one hand and teasing his nipples. Loki moans. 

The guard he is sucking off goes rigid.

"Fuck yeah, bitch," he mutters and shoots his load into Loki's mouth, holding him in place.

He's so close … then the guard has a moment of inspiration and inserts two fingers into Loki's slightly gaping hole and he comes, clenching down hard on the fingers and on the cock. The guard comes too and he shouts out, and Loki can feel his cock twitch violently, emptying itself inside him.

_Too bad I can't get pregnant from him._

Even in his post-coital afterglow Loki sits up in disbelief, dislodging the man underneath him and blinks. Where did this thought even come from? It must be his Jotun heritage bleeding through or gaining strength now that the magic Odin has built around him is gone. 

The guards are getting dressed and leaving, murmuring awkward good byes. Loki waves them away with an impatient hand. He doesn't like their smell. He wishes they would smell more like Clint Barton.

"Are you all right?" Matt asks, but when Loki doesn't answer, too busy questioning his strange line of thought, he leaves.

The last guard to leave, the one who fucked his ass, is trying to be nice and holds a glass of cool water to Loki's parched and come-smeared lips. His slightly reverent and tender behaviour irritates Loki, and as soon as he is finished licking the last drop of water from the glass, he slaps it out of the guard's hand and orders him to go.


	11. That's How I Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies!
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me! 
> 
> I uploaded a draft a few days ago to edit it, and didn't realise it would show up as "updated" so apologies for my mistake!
> 
> Thank you so much for making this readable, dearest [Rex Luscus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus)! (As usual, all remaining mistakes are mine!)
> 
> So, I am gifted with wonderful and patient betas _but_ ... **I am in dire need of another beta**! Pretty please!
> 
> I'd be forever grateful for your help! I'd send you a chapter every 3-4 weeks (unless you can do more, but I guess, that other than me you actually have a life :D)  
> 
> 
> * * *

At 3 am Natasha is in his gym.

He knows her door codes and she knows his. The trust between them is not anything they ever discussed or needed to negotiate. It developed naturally and grew quickly, especially once they put the romantic/sexual part of their relationship aside. 

It's also the reason why they are Fury's favourite team. Their interaction is instinctive, and they have been jokingly dubbed "Fury's torpedo twins" by other S.H.I.E.L.D agents.

She's wearing a large white t-shirt knotted at her hip and black oversized sweat pants while she does her bench presses. He likes to see the muscles on her shoulders bunch and her chest redden, sweat gathering on her upper lip. The t-shirt clings to her skin, and it’s transparent where she is sweating into it.

He sits down on the bench next to her and watches her finish her set. It's not a bad set, although he's seen her do better.

After she has put the bar back, she drinks some water, then pushes a straw into one of Bruce's jelly protein packs. 

"How do you like that stuff?" he asks, pointing at the aluminium pack.

"It's okay, works good enough.” She sucks at the straw, then crumples the pack and tosses it onto the bench. She puts her hands onto her thighs, the way she often does when she is about to start a serious conversation.

"Now," she says. "I have my own gym. You know why I'm here."

"You're worried. You think there's something wrong with me," he says.

She nods and shrugs at the same time. He finds that gesture inherently Russian, but isn't sure if he has ever seen any other Russian person do it.

"Yeah, I guess I'm not okay. No need to lie about it."

"Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

"'Cause I’m not ready yet. I don't know. Mainly because I have no idea."

The way he says it makes Natasha furrow her brows. She leans forward and gently tips his face up.

"Are you lost?" she asks.

It's one thing to admit weakness in the privacy of his own mind. That's already hard enough. 

It's entirely another thing to say it out loud. 

"I am lost," he finally says, wondering how his voice doesn't break.

"Then you need to talk," she says. "You want to get back home, but in order to do that you need to figure out where you are, right?"

Clint nods, and suddenly that pressure in his chest is there again.

"Symptoms?"

"Panic attacks, flashbacks," Clint lists."Dreams. Insomnia."

Natasha listens, her fingers steepled in front of her face. The only moving thing in her face are her eyes scanning his features. "What else?" she asks.

"I went to see him," he says quietly.

Natasha's face is blank, but he can hear her inhale.

"You know that was a bad idea. How was that for you?"

She doesn't need to ask 'Why'.

"I shouldn't have done it," he says flatly. 

"Banner and Cooper did tell us to be careful and wear gauze masks around him when he's in heat," Natasha says drily. "He seems to have a strong effect on anyone nearby in this condition. Pheromones."

There is a slightly malicious undertone in her voice when she says "heat" and Clint's lips twitch a little. She told him about Loki calling her a cunt. In old English or whatever, but still. Misogynistic bullshit is misogynistic, no matter how Shakespearean it's worded.

"Yeah, you could say that," Clint admits.

"Did —?"

"We had sex," Clint says.

There is a pause in which they look at each other.

"Given your history it's hard to believe you both consented to it," Natasha states.

Clint can't move. He squeezes his eyes shut, and suddenly he can't breathe.

"I … don't know," he finally gets out through gritted teeth. "I went in to see him. I don't even know why, really. I was riled up after that meeting, couldn't get him out of my head. Still can't."

Natasha listens patiently.

"Thing is, Loki didn't really seem to want it either." Clint's laugh is hollow. "I swear, he was all aggressive and wild, but … there was something in his eyes. Despair. Anger. I don't really know."

He trails off. Another bout of nausea gathers in his guts.

He remembers most of the things he did under Loki's mind-control. He remembers almost everything.

And yet.

He knows that when he feels the most unreal, the most _removed_ from reality he is the closest to the past.

"Clint!" Natasha snaps her fingers in front of his face.

He blinks.

"About that time I was under his control. I’m not sure if I remember everything." Clint takes Natasha's hand, finding a bit of comfort in her touch. "There might be something else."

"You know you need to find out what it is." Natasha doesn't judge him. She never does. She considers it a waste of time and energy, and prefers to concentrate on finding solutions. "You can't really evaluate your situation without all the facts. You know that."

Clint looks at his hands and flexes the fingers, holding them up.

"I don't want to screw around with my head right now. It's just really bad timing, with Loki here. I need to be employed and go on missions. I can't relax and go into therapy while he's in Stark Tower."

"Actually, it's the best time. At the moment it's relatively quiet; there are no threats; Loki is imprisoned and can't get out. We're all here to support you."

Clint buries his face in his hands.

"I don't want them to know," he groans. "I mean, _I_ don't even know what's wrong with me, so I can't imagine anyone being really a really great help to me. You are, of course. Bruce and his new pal Cooper, definitely, they'd help, they're both great docs. Steve … he'd understand, though I can't imagine how he could help. But Tony? Thor? Oh God, no!"

Natasha smiles wryly. Despite what others believe he knows that Natasha can relate. She has her own demons, but she is too strong for her own good.

"I remember killing them," Clint says. "I dream of their faces, I remember Loki's orders. I still don't feel anything. I don't feel the pain I should feel. I killed people who were my friends. Some of them saved my life. I shot them like fucking dogs and—"

He takes a deep breath.

Natasha nods, and Clint grabs her water bottle to take a sip of water.

"But in my dreams I am always okay, you know? I never feel bad for what I did. In my dreams I still belong to him."

"And when you wake up?"

Clint shrugs. 

"Always check my eyes in the mirror. And then I'm always relieved they're not blue. It's compulsive, I guess."

He laughs.

"He sucked me."

Natasha doesn't flinch. She's neither squeamish nor sensitive. 

"And I couldn't … leave."

"Pheromones," she said. "You read what Banner and Cooper wrote."

"I know!" says Clint. "But it felt … stronger. It was personal."

Natasha regards him with a shrewd look.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He said I still belonged to him."

"Bullshit," Natasha says calmly.

Clint shrugs again, turning the water bottle in his hands around. "Part of me wants to believe him."

"Why?" 

"I don't know," Clint says helplessly, then laughs."So many things I don't know."

Natasha could tell him to book an appointment with one of S.H.I.E.L.D's therapists because they know how to dig out memories buried under layers and layers of the subconscious, know how to decode dreams, how to connect the dots, because that is what they are trained to do. It is one of their most important job tasks to keep field operatives (relatively) PTSD-free and functional, and to be able to predict a breakdown and exercise damage control.

It speaks for her that she doesn't. Instead she pushes his arm. 

"Come on," she says. "Let's get something to eat."

***

Clint signs on for a mission. He wasn't supposed to go, but he's included in this group e-mail and then finds himself calling the project manager, Agent Gublowsky, who is pleased about Clint's willingness to participate. The mission's forecast rockets from a 52% to a staggering 87% success rate he confides in Clint. He mails Clint routes, itineraries, contacts, makes travel arrangements and before Clint knows it, he is on his way to Germany.

He always finds Germany a little nightmarish, although Natasha keeps assuring him that the country isn't as uptight as it seems. 

("Erich Fromm is from Germany," she loves to say. Clint, who has never heard of or read Fromm, can't really do much with this argument.)

Instead of diminishing, his dreams of Loki they become stronger, to a point where he wakes up in the morning after the mission has concluded successfully, convinced Loki is speaking to him. Loki has found a way to haunt him, to invade his mind again.

Like a fool he searches the hotel suite.

He calls Stark Tower.

"Yes, Agent Barton?"

"Jarvis."

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Is it possible to speak to Loki?"

"Of course, sir. He has a landline in his apartment. I will put you through."

Interesting that the AI doesn't refer to Loki as prisoner or to the apartment as a prison.

After it rings for an eternity, Loki picks up. Most people (including Fury) think Loki has no idea about technology, being from Asgard, but Clint has spent enough time with him to know that Loki has knowledge of phones, TVs and computers. He is an alien, not an idiot. (Then again, it did take a little fire incident for Thor to understand that aluminium foil doesn't belong in a microwave.)

"Yes?"

"Loki?"

"Agent Barton. What an unexp—"

"What did you tell me?"

There is a slight pause.

"I am not sure if I understand."

"You were in my dream tonight. You gave me an order. What was it?"

Loki doesn't reply. 

"Remember when you said I still belonged to you, that I'm still yours? Back then, when you were fucking with my brain, you used to know my thoughts, tell me stuff … telepathically. You used to be in my mind."

Only the regular breathing at the other end tells Clint that Loki is still there.

"So, I am asking you, what did you tell me in my dream tonight?"

Loki hangs up.

When Clint puts the phone back, his hands are shaking. He goes into the bathroom, rummages in his bags and finds his pills, takes one, then two. After a minute, he takes a third.

His hands stop shaking eventually.

He is flown to Munich where he debriefs. The mission has gone so well, he is asked to the final meeting with the suits where a lot of the future agenda is discussed. He'll be assigned a new role (as Fury hints) and he has to wear a suit as well, and his paycheck will be doubled and basically … he is being promoted. A few men, all of them high-level S.H.I.E.L.D management, shake his hand and congratulate him. Never has his nickname "Hawk" gotten more on his nerves. Not more than ten minutes pass without one of the suits calling him that and patting his shoulder.

Fury leaves, impatient as usual, but the nod he gives Clint before he gets into a cab fills Clint with pride. It's not easy to get Fury's approval, and he likes having it. 

He can't get rid of the feeling that the whole event is a gigantic "Now you're one of us" celebration, and it manifests when they go drinking after the meeting to the Hofbräuhaus, where all the Americans end up. At least the waitresses all speak good English and adhere to the stereotype that Americans have come (or been led by the German tourism board) to expect of German chicks: mostly blonde, with big busts, waists pressed into colourful dirndls and tall with strong arms.

"So," the guy beside him (Miller, mostly responsible for budgeting and finances) says suddenly. "I'm gonna ask that question everyone at this table wants to ask but are afraid to."

"Ask away," Clint says. It's not as if he can keep them from asking anyway.

"Loki's mind control. Do you remember all of it?" Miller asks, leaning forward. "I heard he messed you up pretty badly."

"Messed me up? Loki _fucked_ me up," Clint says. His own voice sounds kind of far away, as if he's drunk or high and is having one of those weird out-of-body experiences. 

"What it's like … afterwards?" another guy asks (Guillaume; Clint remembers him from another mission in Europe).

"I felt ... regret," Clint truthfully states. "Under Loki's control I never said to myself, hey, it's so cool being mind-controlled. That's the weird part of it. You never feel you're being brainwashed. It's the other way round. You feel you've been brainwashed your entire life and that you're free for the first time."

Guillaume asks, "What did you take from this experience? How did it change you?"

Clint realizes that he is being tested.

"To take nothing as given. Learn to put yourself back together and become much more aware of the many parts you're made of.”

He pauses, suddenly feeling Loki's eyes on him, his cruel smile.

"Did you forgive yourself?" Guillaume asks.

The men at the table all lean back and look at him.

There is no sense in lying.

"Nope," he admits. "Maybe never will."

"Agent Romanov said that you shook off Loki's mind control on your own," Miller says. 

"She kicked me in the head," Clint dryly remarks. "I couldn't do that on my own," he adds and they all laugh. 

The alarm goes off at 4:45 and he manages a short run in the Altstadt, encountering lots of parked delivery vans and bike messengers, then returns around 5:30 to his hotel, packs, and is the first one in the lobby. When the glass doors of the main entrance open and close to let an arriving Indian family pass, he can see a reflection of himself in the glass, a stocky man with a cheap haircut and flat eyes in a suit and an expensive, slightly too-large computer case. He looks like the other businessmen here. 

Compared to Thor, Captain America and Iron Man, he and Natasha only had a little exposure on TV after the whole Chitauri mess, which they are both grateful for. The others don't need anonymity to do their work, but he, who isn't loaded with supersoldier serum, doesn't own an arc reactor-powered suit or come from a freak alien planet, needs to be able to vanish.

The shuttle van arrives and he and the other S.H.I.E.L.D agents are taken to the airport. Another S.H.I.E.L.D guy picks them up, and they leave the airport through another gangway. The agent who accompanies them apologizes for hurrying them through but apparently they have to be back in New York a bit earlier than planned, so S.H.I.E.L.D has sent their own jet.

The jet is usually reserved for top-level management. It's luxurious, with wide seats that can be comfortably pulled out into beds, crystal glasses and silverware and excellent entertainment technology.

It makes him uncomfortable. 

Funny, he muses, how he can revert within seconds to that dirty, poor little boy he once was, intimidated by luxury and displays of wealth. Not even the most expensive suit, the finest silk tie or the best bespoke leather shoes will change that. 

_Loki would have loved this._

He sits up straight, fastening his seat belt. 

"Would you like a drink, sir?" The flight attendant smiles warmly at him as if it's his genuine pleasure to bring him a drink.

He feels for his meds in his trouser pocket.

"Just a whiskey on the rocks, please."

"We have a selection, sir. Do you have anything special in mind, or would you like to have a look at the drink menu?"

"Do you have a Jameson?"

"Yes, we do. In a moment, sir." The flight attendant bestows another smile on him, as if congratulating him for some great achievement, and he smiles back automatically. The flight attendant probably sensed his discomfort. Good staff always does. 

The whiskey comes in a heavy-bottomed glass with an enormous, perfectly clear ice cube. 

_You're mine, Agent Barton._

Clint shoots up from his seat, only to be yanked down by the seat belt.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

_"Is everything all right, sir?"_

The words echo in his mind in his own voice.

All his muscles are suddenly tense. He forces himself to relax, flexing his fingers. His nerves are screaming.

"Just a cramp."

He breathes in and out, in and out. He closes the right nostril with his right thumb and breathes in through the left one, exhaling through the other. Rinse, repeat on the other side. It’s a technique he learned years ago, and still uses from time to time. Basic, but effective. Slowly his heart rate goes down. His skin still tingles. The case with his bow inside is on the seat to his right, and he reaches out, to press his palm against the zip of the bag.

He sits back.

"Sir?"

He looks up and sees the face of the flight attendant hovering over him.

"I took the liberty of bringing you a glass of water."

Gratefully Clint takes the water and gulps it down. He thanks the attendant but can't hear his own voice. All he can hear is a strange buzzing sound, a static noise. 

A few rows in front of him two of his colleagues are chatting and laughing. No one has noticed his little freakout. He feels cold sweat on his forehead, the sides of his nose, on his chin. Something is strangling him from the inside.

He takes his meds and sips the whiskey, and after take-off he leans back, looks out the window and watches the world fall away. 

They rise higher and higher and he feels better the more distance is between him and the ground. (It's always been this way.)

A ghostly, long-fingered hand rests on his thigh. 

_You don't belong to yourself._

After the fasten-seat-belt sign is off, he rises and goes to the toilet. He holds onto the sink and continues his breathing exercises until he is calm again.

Natasha is right, he thinks. He needs to talk to someone, needs this to be fixed by someone who is better at fixing stuff than he is.

A beep cuts through the static machine noise and the fasten-seat-belt sign activates.

Then the pilot's announcement mentions turbulence, and Clint moves to open the door when suddenly the plane drops and he falls back against the wall. Then the plane jerks back up again, and before Clint can catch himself he slams his forehead against the door.

He can hear Loki laugh behind him.

Lo-

_"-ki," he whispers._

_He raises his hand, curls it around Loki's neck and pulls him closer._

_The moment Loki's lips touch his, he thinks, I will never leave the side of this man. The way Loki kisses him back fills him with a happiness he has never known before._

_Then Loki roughly grabs him and shoves him against the wall._

_"No, Sir," Clint says. "Please. I want you, too, I want to serve you but please don't—"_

He gasps in pain. The plane goes up again, and he clutches the metal sink, fighting to stand up again.

_He feels the burn spreading from his rectum, up through his spine, that pain, oh fuck it hurts, he can't breathe, he can't—_

_He doesn't scream. He simply goes rigid and doesn't fight. There would not be much sense in fighting a god._

_Loki pulls Barton away from the wall, throws him onto the ground, kicks him in the ribs, and then kneels between his legs and enters him again. Fuckfuckfuck, it hurts._

_But … I love you, he keeps thinking, bewildered. I love you. I would do anything for you. I love you._

I loved you. I loved you. There was no need for this. There was no need to do this. He wants to stop thinking.

_He doesn't move. He wants to stop that stupid loop of I-love-you's in his brain. He wants to stop thinking what he is thinking; he can't abide these words any more. This is not him, he thinks. The incomprehensible pain tears everything inside him open, as if someone is plucking his flesh from his bones. It takes an eternity for him to realize that the pain he feels is not the physical pain any longer._

_His body has gone numb. He lies still, broken._

_And yet there is something in him that still struggles and fights, flying against the bars of the cage like a desperate bird._

_Finally it's over. Loki empties himself into him, breathing harshly, hissing. There is no pleasure in this for him, Clint registers somewhere deep inside his mind._

I loved you. 

_After a while he moves and Loki's come seeps out between his legs. And blood. Every movement is a thousand razorblades in his rectum, but somehow it's as if this pain belongs to someone else._

_He pulls his trousers up. He can't close them because the zipper is torn, but he doesn't care. Suddenly he is wide awake. He wonders what has just happened and why he is here. What the fuck is he doing? What is going on? He flexes his fingers and slowly looks at Loki, who is kneeling at a distance from him. Inhuman blue eyes, like the arctic sea. Dark lips, parted in a grimace of hatred and disgust—_

He remembers. Oh God, he remembers it all.

He can't help the sob escaping his chest, can't help doubling over in pain.

_"You better make me forget this, because if I ever remember I’ll kill you."_

I loved you.


	12. Spilt Milk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! At the moment it's going slow, since I am back to two betas again, who are perfect, hardworking and lovely—but also have their own lives. Obviously their existences can't revolve around my Omegaverse-fic ;) I could update faster if I had one or two more betas, so if anyone feels up to helping me out, I'd be immensely grateful.
> 
> Trust me, my writing is unreadable unbeta'ed.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Lucius Complex who improved this with her valuable input and many thanks to [Wonderluck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderluck) for betaing! Love you, ladies!
> 
> Thank you again for reading, being patient and being lovely! I checked the stats for this and realised this fic has accumulated a fair amount of hits, kudos and comments, and am nearly speechless with gratitude!
> 
> * * *

It rains on the day of Thor's departure to Asgard. 

Jarvis announces Thor, then the doors open and Loki glimpses armed guards outside. In a deliberate show of arrogance, he positions himself with his back to the entrance, looking out the window. The thick carpet swallows the sounds of footsteps, and he nearly flinches when he hears Thor's voice so close behind him. Once upon a time he used to be able to sense his brother's presence, and for that matter, anyone's presence. 

But now it’s all been taken away from him.

"I have come to say goodbye," Thor says, but Loki doesn't react. 

After a long silence Thor comes closer, until they stand side-by-side looking out of the large panorama window at the city.

"I am glad you are here. I don't think you would have survived long in Asgard," Thor says.

Thor is wearing Midgardian clothes—dark denims, a t-shirt, sneakers—but he still doesn't look human. It's a thin disguise.

"I will not survive this life, either way," Loki replies. He looks at his hands, the thin, breakable skin.

"Father is still looking for a way to ease the punishment and allow you to return home, but we have to wait. At the moment, Asgard and Jotunheim are very close to an important point of their diplomatic relationship. The new king, Byleistr, has offered his help. He has more information, insight to offer about your…needs. He seems very forth—"

"No," Loki cuts him off.

Thor frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again.

"I don't want any help from these beasts."

"Loki, it would be foolish to not accept the knowledge he can offer. It would be easier on you, if you knew more about your—"

"Do not presume to know what would be easier for me and what would not. I am not one of them. I do not want to accept my condition. I want it to _cease_."

He suddenly thinks of Barton. How sweet it would be if he could be free of him. Once he was free of these heats, of his body's undignified wants and desires, he would kill Barton first. Loki clenches his fists.

"There has to be a way."

Thor looks at him from the side. His eyes are older than he remembers them. 

"I hoped that being mortal would help you to develop a different point of view."

"Even for you that is naive," Loki retorts. 

Thor laughs sadly. "Amusing, how some things never change. You still sound very much like a petulant child."

Loki says nothing to that, only continues to stare out the window. The rain is gentle, unlike the heavy thunderstorms Thor's temper used to cause in Asgard. They could at times uproot trees, flatten entire villages. 

So little is Thor's grief, so inconsequential, Loki thinks. 

"As you know, the magic Odin uses to enable me to travel between Midgard and Asgard is dark and dangerous. I cannot risk it too often, Loki."

"I am not craving your visits," Loki says dismissively. "You can return in a hundred human years when I am dead and rotting in the earth, for all I care."

Just to drive the point home he smiles at Thor, and hides his disappointment when Thor doesn't react.

So insignificant is Loki that he hardly merits a reaction in his brother's eyes.

Thor turns away and speaks. 

"In the last days, Tony Stark and I have found ways to connect Asgardian ways of communication with Midgardian technology. You know that Heimdall is our way to know of you, but if you wish to speak with us, if there are any urgent matters, you could use Stark's laboratory."

"These ways have always existed. I have always _used_ them. It was only your father's doing that most people were not aware of the connections between the worlds," Loki sneers. "Perhaps he sought to keep the power to himself."

Thor speaks haltingly. "Our father had a different idea about ruling the worlds. But one day I will be King and…I wish to enforce communication between all of the nine realms. I wish to foster understanding and acceptance between the worlds." 

"Do you think to single-handedly abolish violence, hatred and war?" Loki laughs. "And yet you allowed me to be condemned to death. What a sad and small little mind you have!"

"You have brought misery and ruin over an entire city. There are still people out there who are missing, buried under rubble. There are women who have lost their husbands. Parents who have lost their children. You have done this. You—"

Thor does not call him a murderer. He can still cry like a child, tears flowing freely.

"Humans are unable to understand compassion. Do you not know that they turn against each other the minute they think they can get away with it? They are liars, thieves, murderers. They might look like us, but they lack understanding in every form."

Thor shakes his head, but Loki continues.

"The Jotuns are soulless, mindless beasts, forever enslaved to their base instincts. The dwarves are greedy mercantile, only interested in their financial gain, hungry for gold and silver. Or look at the Dökkálfar, the fair, beautiful elves. Did you not know they cannot live without the existence of the Ljósálfar, the dark elves you despise? They are one, Thor. These elves with their milk white skin and gentle smiles need the vicious creatures that live under the earth and cannot endure the sun."

Outside the rain is a gentle, steady downpour now. If the elements were Loki's to command, shards of ice would be hurtling through the air, storms would whip the sea into sky high waves, floods would swallow the cities, and the earth would rip open. He'd let rain blood and fire onto this godforsaken world.

"You've killed, too," Loki reminds his brother bitterly. "Don't you remember how much you loved killing? How we slayed the frost giants when Laufey slighted you? You reveled in death. You bathed in blood. You delighted in it."

"I was a murderous fool. I believed what I did to be honorable," Thor says, voice breaking. "But I know now how wrong I was. I _regret_ it, Loki."

Loki moves to turn away, but Thor's hand shoots out to grab his arm. His grip is relentless.

"Do you not regret?"

Loki looks at him. This weak, ridiculous man-child is king of Asgard, he thinks. This is the king Odin chose. 

"I regret nothing," he spits.

Thor looks as if he has been struck and slowly lets go of Loki's arm. He steps back, averts his eyes. 

Thor, Loki thinks, has abandoned him already. He is already gone.

"I have received news from a new threat, but the message was vague," Thor says in a different, measured tone. "I also need to return to Asgard to continue my efforts to reform the laws and the restructuring of Asgard."

"So this is farewell then," Loki says mockingly, if only to make Thor uncomfortable, if only to remind him of the words he said to Loki once upon a time (It seems like a billion years ago, that day in sunbaked New Mexico).

"I will return as soon as I can, but it may not be too soon," Thor says, ignoring (or not remembering) Loki's mockery. "My S.H.I.E.L.D brothers, the Avengers, have promised to see to it that you are safe." 

He turns to leave.

"So…this Jane Foster," Loki says, suddenly casual.

Thor freezes and then turns around, wariness in his features. "What do you mean to say about Jane?"

"Is this what love is? What it does?"

Thor steps closer again, so close their faces nearly touch. Loki marvels at the strange expression in his eyes. He is sure he has never seen it before.

"You are a disgrace, Thor," Loki mocks him. "Once you were a warrior, a god, commanding the rain and the thunder. And now love has turned you into a weeping old woman. Jane Foster must truly have a great treasure between her legs to render you such a weakling."

He hopes Thor will strike him, but instead Thor remains still with a strange expression on his face, as if he is listening to something only he can hear.

"Yes, Loki," Thor says in a strangely wondrous tone. "This is what love does. It undoes you. It destroys you. And then it remakes you." He wants to say more, but then sees Loki's mocking sneer, and he turns silent. 

"Farewell," Thor says instead, eyes heavy and sad.

When Thor has left, Loki leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. To try to forget or to try to remember, he knows not.

After an hour the rain ceases, and he knows that Thor has left Midgard. The blue sky hurts his eyes. He closes the blinds and retreats into his bedroom.

He curls up on the bed, feeling the hateful need to sleep make his eyes heavy. How ironic that humans have so little life to live, and yet need so much sleep. He usually resents sleep, but now he feels he could sleep for a thousand years. 

In the late afternoon, Jarvis wakes him up, announcing Fury. Fury is only accompanied by two security guards and Banner. Loki doesn't bother to get up.

Fury hands him a keycard, and tells him that he can leave Floor 13 and access other floors. He rattles off a list of common floors he has clearance for.

Banner is quiet, just stands in the background smiling pleasantly, his hands behind his back. 

"As long as you inform us two days in advance, you are also permitted to leave Stark Tower once a week. Of course you will be accompanied by S.H.I.E.L.D agents or at least one of the Avengers."

Loki inclines his head in thanks.

"Though, for the duration of your monthly condition you have to stay on Floor 13," Banner adds unhappily. Loki likes how he smoothly says 'monthly condition' without any inflection.

He takes what he can get. It's something to work with.

"For your information, we're working on various ways to treat your condition, to at least alleviate the effects," Banner says, decidedly more happy. "At the moment there is not much there yet, since we're waiting for the funds to be, er, processed, but in due time we'll hopefully make some progress. I can keep you up to date."

He looks expectantly at Loki. What does he want? Praise? 

"Funds?" he asks instead.

"Well," Banner says slowly, "The development costs are quite high, and we need to convince S.H.I.E.L.D that we have to take measures about your condition. Unfortunately, they are not very cooperative."

"At least Asgard has agreed to cover the rebuilding of the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters which will cost at least 300 million dollars, so that works in our favor," Fury says dryly. "We're doing what we can, but don't expect any miracles."

Loki keeps from asking about Barton although he is itching to. 

Fury puts the keycard on a coffee table and they leave.

It's apparently a visitor's day though, because not even two hours later Dr. Cooper visits him. Loki is startled to realize his stomach began grumbling exactly at 7:30 (the time his dinner is usually served). He once used to go without sustenance for weeks, even months. Now he has to get used to being hungry every day.

"I brought something for you." She hands him a neat bag made from fine, reddish leather.

He opens it, then laughs.

Inside are dildos and vibrators and other…devices in various shapes, designed to pleasure oneself, all of them made from silver or steel.

"For emergencies," she says. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and she averts her eyes.

He is truly amused. 

"Does Banner know about this?"

She smiles, shrugs.

"I am not obliged to ask for his permission, but I will tell him, of course. If you don't mind."

"What if I would mind?" He lifts and inspects one tool after the other. When he looks at the last item he laughs again. "This is highly personal, after all!"

He lifts a large, black object and examines it. 

"A wolf's penis? You really do believe every word the Jotuns write in their little reports, don't you?"

Cooper opens her own bag and takes out her medical kit. She always measures his blood pressure, his pulse and whatnot when she visits him. She always makes notes in that little yellow notepad of hers.

"I don't understand why they should lie about this. Your alpha will knot inside you, trapping the sperm and ensuring your pregnancy. The report says only your mate can knot with you. It makes sense to me. That dildo might be able to trick your body into believing that you are coupling with your mate and then end your heat, shorten its duration or at least provide some relief. It's worth a try."

Loki is not about to show a mere mortal any gratitude so he sneers instead.

"Even if the Jotuns knot during intercourse, there is no guarantee that my mate would be able to. After all, he isn't a Jotun."

"Are you sure you don't know who it is?" Cooper asks.

"I have told you already that I do not," Loki snarls, and immediately regrets it. Cooper and Banner are the ones who submit reports about his mental state and his health to the S.H.I.E.L.D authorities, and it won't do to alienate her.

Cooper plays with her pen. "Why are you not curious?"

"Why wouldn't I want to seek out a person who would hold such power over me?" Loki says in a mocking tone. "Who could turn me into a brood mare? Who could give me orders? Why, Dr. Cooper, I don't know, I must be insane not to want this person in my short, may-fly life!"

Cooper isn't offended and merely laughs. "Well, at least you have some form of substitute now," she replies. 

She gets up, then sits again, biting her lip.

"There is something else I'd like to share with you," she says slowly, obviously still unsure if she should tell him. 

Loki sits back in his chair and watches her.

"Either you are a very talented liar, which is what Agent Barton thinks you are, or you have lost…your lack of empathy," she says. "This is quite impressive. We've never had a case of reversed APSD."

Loki cocks his head, displaying an amused, intrigued expression while tension is coiled tightly inside his stomach.

"Psychopathy, if you will," she adds. "Although I personally dislike the word, as a professional."

"Reversed? "

"Yes, you were tested extensively a few weeks ago when S.H.I.E.L.D took you into custody. We tested you again several times after your return, and we found that the results were quite different from the last time. We not only measured your replies but also your emotional responses. That was one of the reasons why S.H.I.E.L.D decided to risk your presence on our planet and—"

"You accept my presence because you want good relations with Odin and Asgard, and count on their protection and goodwill should other aliens attempt to take over Earth."

_And as soon as you have perfected your weapons, you will get rid of me and throw my cold body into some ditch, let me rot in some Midgardian grave._

He keeps his expression serious and polite, although internally he is grinning. Somehow this situation is amusing—these feeble-minded mortals thinking they could…understand him. Test him, evaluate him. 

They don't even understand themselves, praying to their false gods like children, slaughtering each other in their greed over shiny baubles.

"Of course politics is a factor," Cooper says. "I would be naive to try to convince you otherwise; refusing Odin and Asgard isn't a recommendable action, seeing we are more or less defenseless compared to Asgard or the Chitauri. There are other aspects too, though. We want to understand your nature, gain new insights. And Dr. Banner, Tony Stark and Steve Rogers agree with Thor that you may be in grave danger should you be imprisoned in Asgard, not only because of your actions in the recent past, but also because of the many political reforms Thor is initiating."

"Do you trust your tests?" Loki asks. "Can your machines tell if I have changed?"

Cooper shrugs.

"We have tried several evaluation methods and tasked a team of different psychologists to reduce the possibility of human error, but is it hundred percent?" She smiles. "In the end psychology is not a science." It's a joke obviously, so Loki humors her by smiling.

He looks sadly at her. "I had not felt regret a few weeks ago," he says. "All I felt was rage and anger."

He lowers his lashes, but continues to watch her.

"What do you feel now?" Cooper asks, leaning forward.

Loki looks at his hands, folded in his lap. "I feel regret. I have dreams. I don't want to feel all of this."

"We'll help you adjust," Cooper says, visibly touched. "If you want to talk, I'll be here for you. You can trust me."

Loki smiles self-depreciatively. "I am a monster, Dr. Cooper, but there are times I wish I weren't."

Cooper swallows. "Why do you refer to yourself as a monster?"

"I caused the death of many. Not only humans. I have taken lives whenever the necessity arose and I have never regretted it. I never thought about the pain I caused, but today I had a conversation with Thor and he asked me if I felt regret, and I lashed out at him, angrily."

He shrugs, deliberately mirroring her gesture, sitting with his palms on the table between them. "I am not much in control of myself these days," he adds in a quiet tone. 

Deception can be entertaining even if there isn't a purpose to it. (Except there always is. Whenever one is in a strategially disadvantegous situation, it's good to gather allies.)

"I abhor not being in control, and yet here I am, a prisoner, in a different, fragile body and tortured by these conditions."

Cooper looks at him with sympathetic eyes. "As you may have noticed, Dr. Banner and I have different approaches. I think that medicating you is not a suitable therapy for you: you do not require treatment. You are not sick. Your heat is a characteristic trait of your race—it doesn't need to be suppressed. It needs to be researched and evaluated perhaps, but the most important thing right now is that we enable you to live comfortably on Earth, follow your nature as much as possible."

Cooper looks unhappy, dissatisfied with her own speech.

Loki imagines for a moment what she would look like riding him, naked, her breasts bouncing, her entire body covered in sweat. Or bent over the very same desk, pushing back against him, begging for his cock.

He blinks once, twice, then shakes his head.

"I have to get back to my office now, but please…contact me, if you would like to talk to someone." She gets up and hands him a business card. For a moment she looks as if she wants to embrace him. Loki rises too and walks her to the door.

"Oh, I forgot to ask one question," she says, suddenly changing the topic. "Whenever someone mentions Agent Barton's name in your presence, your blood pressure goes up and your heart rate increases. It never changes when Natasha Romanova or Bruce Banner's names are mentioned."

Loki stares at her.

"I do understand that Agent Barton and you have history."

"He threatened to put an arrow through my eye socket. I have lost my advantage. Barton, on the other hand, still has his bow and his arrows."

Loki feels the skin on his face prickling, but he manages to look her in the eyes.

Cooper nods.

"If you want, I can ask Director Fury to limit his access to this floor."

"No," Loki says quickly, cursing himself, then adds, "I am not afraid of him. He doesn't plan to implement his threat. If he wanted to, he could have killed me already. Requesting special treatment would only arouse suspicion."

Cooper looks at him, and Loki schools his face into a bland mask, but has the feeling that she can see through him.

She changes the topic. 

"You have to gain weight," she tells him. "Since your arrival you have lost five kg, and now you weigh only sixty-eight kg."

"I am not overly fond of Midgardian cooking," Loki says.

"We have to find a diet that agrees with you." Cooper scribbles something into her notepad. "Especially during your heat. Obviously you're losing a lot of weight during these periods."

Loki wishes that, like the others, she would use the word "condition" to describe his…condition.

The next few days are spent mostly in his apartment. He browses the Internet and it takes him exactly fifty-three minutes to find porn. He is instantly addicted to Internet surfing—it really fits into the random way his mind is working. He reads about Midgardian geology, then about the history of Europe, then about the ruling families. He learns about Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Balzac, Che Guevara, Machiavelli and the Medici. He learns about the French Revolution, communism, the rise and fall of houses, goverments, countries, religions. First he is bewildered by the new and unfamiliar language, but a matter of an hour or two he begins to understand: hardware, software, RAM, processors, algorithm, Java, coding, HTML, Flash, websites, blogs, social media, content. 

He finds as he reads Kierkegaard, Hegel and Foucault, that humans are incapable of understanding their own gifts. All they see is how they can exploit anything they can grab with their greedy little minds, for profit, for _having things_. All they want to do is to sate their hunger for life, but in their little minds they equate money with life, possessing with living; they don't have enough time to grow. They have the means to understand magic and the laws of the universe, but only a few reach a stage of advanced intelligence and wisdom: most of them die too early, their bodies withered, but their mind still small and child-like. 

He ends up at a website called Amazon and it takes him a little under five minutes to realize he can purchase items and have them delivered. He remembers the envelope the ever-helpful S.H.I.E.L.D agents left in a drawer in his desk. At that time he had not paid them attention, but he remembers he received a credit card. A very efficient way to handle money.

Nobody bothers him, apart from the guards who serve him his meals, and he busies himself with purchasing clothes and other necessary items. 

Two days later, he can feel his heat approaching. Is he imagining it, or are the intervals getting shorter? 

To distract himself, he takes an ice cold bath that leaves his skin bluish and his teeth chattering, but at least it takes his mind off the heat. It literally numbs the arousal. He busies himself with wandering around on the floors he is allowed to visit. He is pleased to see that when he speaks to a young female agent, her cheeks flush, and she licks her lips. He has always been beautiful, and many have told him so, but her reaction is on a more instinctive basis. She knows who he is, who he has been, but instead of wariness or disgust, he reads pity in her eyes, the pity softhearted young girls have for the villain of the piece. And now that he is de-fanged and _defenseless_ (in her eyes), he can feel her little heart beating for him. 

There is a sort of café or cafeteria where he buys a coffee, pretending not to see the looks people throw him. 

He remembers the first coffee he ever had on Earth, given to him by Barton. They'd been driving, and the sun was going up. Compared to the glorious, many-colored sunrises in Asgard, where the entire sky was pale and blossom-colored, lush gold and orange, the Midgardian sunset seemed grey and dull. He had felt uncomfortably hot and sweaty, pieces of fabric sticking to his skin where he was bruised and still bleeding.

Barton pushed a paper container with a dark, steaming liquid into his shaking fingers.

"Coffee," he said. "It'll make you feel better."

Even then something inside Loki had shifted, but at the time he failed to recognize his impending heat. 

When Loki grimaced at the bitterness, Barton smiled, took the coffee back and fussed with it, opened other small packages, milk, sugar, then poured them in and stirred with a wooden stick. "Maybe you like that better?" He handed the cup back to Loki and indeed, the warm, sweet taste was perfect: soothing, yet refreshing.

Barton's gloved hand hovered above his shoulder, then someone yelled, "Alright, let's go, let's move, we have to leave here!" and then everyone got up and Barton pulled Loki into the van they had procured on their way.

If he would have known and just immediately snapped Barton's neck then and there, how different things would have played out, he thinks with no small amount of regret. 

No use in crying over spilt milk, a Midgardian saying he likes. 

Loki remembers how Barton had liked to use that particular phrase: no use crying over spilt milk. It’s a visual phrase, a phrase that stuck—one he finds apt in these circumstances.

In the late afternoon one of the inspections Fury has given him notice about takes place. They don't touch much, but scan everything with small devices and for a while the apartment is filled with people in black suits and beeping noises. He is reluctantly impressed as one young agent walks past a closed cupboard and scans the content before opening it. The items in the cupboard appear on his display as multi-colored shapes, the colors indicating the degree of danger perhaps? He once could do similar things with his magic. 

After half an hour, he hears one of them saying, "Examination of Floor 13 finished, all clear."

The team leader who was all bossy in the beginning is nearly apologetic at the end, swayed by Loki's demure and good behaviour. If anything Loki has always been talented to make people like him, when it was opportune. Apparently he hasn't yet lost his touch.

When his dinner arrives later that evening, he is pleased to see that the guards serving it are the ones who have fucked him during his last heat. Matt, the blond one, and the other man who fucked him from behind.

Even though the guards take care not to be too close to him, they don't move away when he brushes the hand of the younger one. The guards both hesitate, both torn obviously between arousal and their fear to lose their jobs. They avert their eyes, both of them moving slowly, like prey being stalked.

When the dark-haired guard dares to glance at him, Loki smiles at him, parting his lips ever so slightly.

The man looks at him, transfixed, and in the way his shoulders slump, Loki can clearly see that whatever battle he's been fighting with himself, he lost. The blond guard darts a quick glance towards the camera in the ceiling of the living room, and the dark-haired guard nods, almost imperceptibly and leaves the room. Only when the red light on the camera goes out a minute later does Loki realize that he must have gone back to deactivate them.

He grins, stretching in his chair, and then the blond guard's hands are already on him, helping him to undress. The guard teases his bare nipples, stroke his flanks, then bends down and sucks them, and Loki arches into his mouth.

Impatiently he pushes down his trousers and spreads his legs, throwing them over the armrests of the dinner chair. He can't wait to have a cock inside him.

The door unlocks, and the other guard slips in, already undressing. Instead of fucking him immediately, they lay him out on the table (carefully placing the dinner tray onto a side board, which makes Loki smile) and the blond one, Matt, presses his flat, hot tongue onto Loki's folds and begins to press rhythmically.

Loki moans, lifting his hips from the table. The other guard's cock is dark and wet with pre-cum and Loki pushes himself up on his elbows to suck it.

Matt begins to tongue fuck him while pushing a wet finger into his other hole, crooking it perfectly to push into that spot and Loki feels his first orgasm approaching.

Suddenly, Matt's fingers slide out of him, and the guards both pull away so quickly Loki's head nearly connects with the wooden table.

Incensed about the interruption, Loki sits up to order them to immediately continue. In Asgard he would have had the skin flayed off them—

The words die on his lips.

Barton is standing in the middle of the living room. 

The guards make half-hearted attempts to cover themselves and begin edging away from him.

Barton is freshly showered, clean shaven with his hair still slightly damp. He doesn't wear cologne, but Loki can smell a trace of after shave. He can smell the dry cotton of Barton's suit, the laundry smell of starched linen. He'd like to just inhale, closing his eyes.

"Shit," one of the guards finally says.

"Agent Barton," Loki says as smoothly as possible. "So nice of you to join us."

Barton's lips twitch but he takes a dining chair and sits down. 

When Matt moves towards his pile of clothes, Barton says in a cutting voice, "Did I give you permission to move?" 

Matt and the other guard stand stock-still. 

"I don't buy that you are afraid of me," Barton tells Loki in a casual way. "I know that's what Banner and Cooper believe, but we both know that's bullshit."

Odd—the very first moment he speaks, Loki feels as if the sun is shining on him, and he is flooded with something akin to euphoria. Then almost in the same instant he wishes Barton wouldn't have spoken. His voice physically hurts him, affects him, and he finds he cannot shield himself. It's harsh, and hard, and unforgiving, every tone ripe with distrust and dislike. 

After a while Barton looks around, then tells Matt to bring him Loki's laptop, which is at the other end of the dining table. Matt immediately complies, his eyes wide with fear, and Barton takes his time looking at it.

"I see you've already found porn," he snorts. "Did Tony show you, or did you find out about it yourself?"

Loki is wary of this Barton. There is something off about him. He wonders if he is drunk. What annoys him most is the complete absence of fear. It annoys, enrages, disquiets him.

It scares him.

He slides off the table and walks towards Barton, but this time Barton doesn't try to get away from him. Instead he watches with an amused smirk.

When Loki is close enough, he turns the screen around so all of them can see it. His left hand reaches into his trouser pocket, retrieves a small rectangular black item. Loki recognizes it as a USB stick with flash drive, one of these items that can be bought for a few dollars and contain some amount of data. Bits and bytes. It's like crude, basic memory magic, but it works.

If Barton wants to believe that Loki is still dangerous, why not let him? Everything is better than Barton knowing the truth. Loki settles for a sphinx-like smile, forcing himself to look Barton straight in the eye, watching Barton following even the smallest of his movements with darkening eyes. 

The unsettling thing here is that Barton isn't unsettled at all by his own lust. Like he’s in perfect control, the way Loki isn't.

After a while Barton continues. 

"You may not be a god any longer, but you are still a liar."

Loki still smiles, irritated by the hurt that he feels. He can't understand, doesn’t want to understand where that comes from.

_No, not hurt. The disdain of humans hardly matters to me._

Barton swallows, then looks away, gazes out of the window into nothingness.

"Did you really think I wouldn't remember?" he says at last. "'Course you didn't. Didn't even think that I'd ever be free from you, did you?"

Although Barton pauses and gives him another cold look, Loki knows that he doesn't expect an answer, so he doesn't say anything. He continues to stare straight back into Barton's closed face.

He should be surprised that Barton could overcome memory magic that powerful, but it doesn't matter now. He remembers. That is all that matters.

"Tell me, what use would you have had for me, if you had won?"

If Barton only knew, Loki thinks. 

_I would have destroyed and burned you and then strewn the ashes into the winds._

"I did not plan on killing you," Loki says, "if that is what you're asking."

Barton leans back in his chair, looking at the ceiling and then back at him, and Loki can't tell if he's affecting boredom with the answer, or relief or anger.

Where he once could read the man like a book, now he faces a Sphinx. 

"You really thought, I'd be your brainwashed servant for the rest of my life?" Barton’s voice is a drawl, almost lazy.

Loki lowers his head in a show of regret, trying to win time.

"I now wish I had not done what I have done," he says, keeping his voice low. "I caused so much suffering, and it haunts me. I know now what it means to be mortal—to have only one life, and little time. I wish to make the best of it and…"

"And what? Repent?" Barton mocks him. 

Loki doesn't continue speaking; it would only aggravate Barton's anger more and he doesn't wish to do so. 

Barton clicks on the USB icon and clicks the video file on it. The first thing Loki sees is a time stamp, then his old room. 

He sees himself.

The guard enters the bedroom, and Loki knows immediately which events the video will show.

"No," he says, his voice flat. His own horror registers within him like an alien thing. He is actually horrified that he _is_ horrified. Of course it's not about the fact that he had been fucking, sucked cocks, had taken them. It's about Barton watching. He doesn't understand the numb, icy horror that fills his insides. 

_And why did I not even think of that?_ Why did it not even occur to him?

The creature on the screen is nothing like himself—begging hoarsely, crying out, moaning in wanton lust. Loki forces himself to look away from the screen to look at Barton, but Barton doesn't look at the screen. With unconcealed amusement he looks at Loki, watching him. He returns Barton's stare, pretends as if it doesn't concern him in the slightest that there is filmed evidence of his night with the guards.

"You must be completely brain dead if you thought _for a second_ fucking these guys gives you an advantage," Barton asks. "Even if you could meddle with their brains, none of them have the security clearance to get you out of here."

Loki notices how indifferent Barton sounds. He doesn't even care.

"It's good to see, you know," says Barton, "how strong that heat thing really affects you. Seeing that you once called yourself a god."

"I _was_ a god," Loki interrupts him, wishing he had kept his mouth shut the moment he opens it. Such is the burden of being human: the brain acts sluggishly.

"Yeah, a god who sucks cocks," Barton mocks him. He throws a glance at the screen. "You do make a good slut, I give you that."

Loki seethes but stays silent.

"It's actually quite funny. Here, I watch you being fucked by three different guys, begging for it," Barton muses, smiling. "but you didn't want me to fuck you. _You_ fucked me. And you didn't even like it. What was that about? Just getting off on the pain, right?"

His smile is a hateful grimace.

Loki stubbornly looks away.

The guards are both shocked beyond words. They stare with wide eyes at Barton, their faces distinctly greenish.

"Agent Barton, please, I—" the dark-haired guard begins.

"There are two very different ways this can end," Barton interrupts him, and flashes his horrible smile again. Cruel. Loki imagines perhaps the man had stolen that smile from him, turned it back against Loki the way he reverses everything else between them now.

"You'll get dressed, go back to your stations and turn off the cameras for this room, for the corridors on Floor 13, for the west side of the Tower and the elevator there. When you get back to your station you'll find I have uploaded a file to your desktop. It's a continuous loop showing Loki at his computer. You'll spend the next hour incorporating that into the video stream. There are two other files which will bridge the time from 7pm to 7:30pm for the video streams of the corridors and the one for the elevator."

The guards stare at him, shocked, then at each other while Barton extracts two slim phones and hands them to the guards. They both look at the phones as if they've never seen a mobile phone in their lives.

"Sir…" Matt ventures, his voice suddenly terribly young and squeaky.

"I will call you and tell you when to delete the loops and switch the cameras back on. It'll be in three or four hours, but don't bet on it," Barton continues smoothly, ignoring Matt.

"Sir, I can switch off the cameras for twenty minutes, but—"

" _Or_ I can hand this USB stick over to Director Fury who will fire you before you can say "gang-bang" and your career is finished. For good. Not only that, if that file makes it onto the desks of Dr. Cooper and Dr. Banner you might even get charged with sexual assault. Maybe you'll get off the hook and you won't have to go to prison, but you _will_ have an entry in your file and you will be unemployable. Maybe one day you'll eventually get hired again…as a security guard in a shopping mall. Who knows? Say no to me, and you say no to your S.H.I.E.L.D employment."

The dark-haired guard begins to snivel, but Matt puts a hand on his companion's shoulder, gripping the phone in his other hand tight.

"Understood, sir," he says in a firm voice that surprises Loki. "Please wait five minutes before calling us to make sure that the cameras in the elevator in West-wing 2 are switched off—it'll take us a few minutes to get back to our station and to disable cameras 34 and 35, which are both located in the parking area of the tower. The cameras will stay turned off until you call us again."

"Very good," Barton says, grinning like a shark. "I like your attitude."

"Thank you, sir," Matt says. "And my apologies about—"

"Shut the fuck up," Barton says lazily. "Get dressed and get out of here." 

They hurry to comply, almost stumble in their haste to pull up their trousers and all but run out of the door. Before Matt closes the door behind him, he spares a last glance at Loki.

Then Loki is alone with Barton.

He tells his heart to stop hammering and slowly raises his head to meet Barton’s icy gaze.


	13. The Party's Just Begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is courtesy of the wonderful Rex Luscus! I apologise for the length!
> 
> Also sorry for the long wait! Saying that, I cannot promise how often I update. Ideally I would like to update weekly, but I don't want to promise it, because often I simply can't. I would love to have time to only do this, but unfortunately there's that pesky RL and job and whatnot. 
> 
> Thank you very much for staying with me so far and reading and enjoying my fic! I am very happy and grateful that you like it, and I am thrilled that you find it exciting!
> 
> * * *

Barton moves so fast, Loki can't even gasp. One moment Barton is sitting in that dining chair; the next, he is forcing Loki down onto his knees with his hand around Loki's throat. He claws at Barton's hand, trying to pull it away, but he starts to see black dots and nearly pass out. His hands fall to his sides, useless.

Once he is on his knees, Barton presses Loki's face into his crotch.

"This what you want?" Barton yanks Loki back and flings him like a rag doll to the ground. The reality of Barton's brute strength is shocking. Loki remembers when not even Barton's arrow could wound him. Or at least not the way it should.

Loki resists the urge to back away from Barton. His weakness is obvious, but at least he won't show fear. 

He wonders if Barton has finally come to kill him. It seems unlikely, and yet, he can't say he can predict Barton's actions any longer.

Maybe if he revealed to Barton what exactly their bond is … maybe that would move Barton to let him live. 

Or maybe it's for the best, Loki thinks. This mortal life will be nothing but humiliation, an constant battle against time, a degrading barter for every moment, every breath. If he has to die, then perhaps it would be better to go like this, better than to slowly rotting away. 

It would definitely be better than enduring these heats and these cravings.

(Once he was in Hel, surely sentimental Thor would come to free him, and Odin and Frigga would not stop him. Odin once even went to Hel himself to retrieve the thrice-cursed Baldr.)

Barton presses a gun against his forehead. Loki smirks at him.

"You won't shoot me now, I think," he says. "You'll want to make use of the next few hours, have your fun with me, before you murder me."

Barton laughs. His laugh cuts like glass shards, dissonant and ugly and pained.

Then he abruptly releases Loki and goes into the bedroom. Loki doesn't move, just listens to the wardrobe opening, fabric rustling, hangers clanking against each other. Then he's back. He throws a trench coat at Loki.

"Put that on," he says. 

Loki obeys. The lining of the coat feels cold against his skin. 

"Where are your shoes?" Barton barks at him.

Loki knows that if he wants to have control over this situation he should not follow Barton's orders, but Barton has already spotted his pair of short black boots.

"Put them on," he says.

"Make me," Loki replies waspishly, raising his fist, just to see what Barton will do.

Barton backhands him, then gets the boots himself and pulls them onto Loki's feet. His touch makes Loki instantly wet, and frantically Loki closes his legs and tries to pull away. He can't control the shiver going through him, his cock hardening again.

"Hold still," Barton growls, and grips his ankle. That hand on his bare skin makes Loki inhale sharply. It's as if Barton's touch ignites every nerve in him. He wants those fingers inside him, and he nearly throws his head back, suppressing a moan.

"Get up," Barton orders, but pulls him up without waiting for Loki to comply.

As they leave the apartment, Barton is on his phone, speaking in a low tone with the guards. 

The cameras are off in the deserted corridors. As they walk, Barton's grip on his arm stays firm.

In the brightly lit elevator, Loki notices with panic how dark his eyes are, how flushed his cheeks are. When the doors open, he briefly considers fleeing, then is astonished by how outlandish and absurd this thought feels.

Barton's hand touches his back and Loki's cunt clenches again. He's afraid that he's so wet, his juices will run down his legs. They have to walk in the shadows since not all cameras in the parking lot are turned off, only those on one side. Barton steers him to a silver Honda parked a few meters from the exit, opens the passenger door, pushes him in and locks it, then walks briskly to the other side, obviously confident that Loki won't run.

Barton drives fast and recklessly, not carefully as he did when he was under Loki's thrall. Loki is somewhat satisfied to see that his eyes are burning.

"You did plan this well," Loki says when Barton's silence becomes intolerable. "I remember you always were a good organizer. Even as a child—you were already much smarter than your brother. I loved to _pick_ your brain."

Loki shows Barton a nasty smile, pleased at how Barton’s face turns slightly grey.

"Not that you have any way of knowing, but I'm not gonna kill you," Barton says after a while, without looking at him. Almost as if he's not a threat. "I'd really like to, but I have a duty to S.H.I.E.L.D and that's the only reason I'm letting you live. You can try to taunt me, but I won't do you that favor."

Another wave of his heat courses through Loki's body. The damned coat; its rough fabric presses into Loki's skin just so, caressing his sensitive, erect nipples, and he nearly arches up. He feels so empty, and he needs to be filled. He closes his eyes when he can't fend off the image of Barton inside him, taking him.

"That bad, huh?" Barton flashes him a grin.

White-hot hatred floods through Loki. His fingers grip the belt of his trench coat.

"It wasn't that bad fucking you," Loki says. "You were so eager, so greedy."

Barton says nothing and drives on, but his eyes are wide and glassy. Loki smiles, satisfied with the effect of his words.

"Are you really trying to tell yourself you did not want it?" Loki throws his head back and laughs. Barton seems to struggle to breathe.

_Good._

"You craved it, you filthy slut. You begged me to fuck you harder."

It's easy to unravel humans. Barton is shaking now, and Loki can see that he is not paying attention any longer, too caught up in memories. 

With a quick movement he slides the belt out of his coat and flings up his elbow. There is a faint, sickening noise when it connects with Barton's jaw. For a split second he is shocked by his own reaction—as if he can somehow feel Barton's pain too. He pushes the feeling violently down, and with his other hand throws the belt around Barton's neck and then pulls. 

He can feel his own labored breathing, his weak mortal beating frantically—he is used to being able to snap human necks like twigs but now he has to apply force, so much that his arms hurt and he panics as he sees how much energy it costs him. Faintly through his haze he hears the screeching of tires as Barton tries to control the car. They speed up as his foot slams down onto the gas pedal in panic, and Loki's blood rushes to his head. He can feel his blood singing as the lights turn to white and colored streaks in the night.

He grits his teeth, trying to pull the belt tighter around Barton. Barton's face is purpling, and his eyes are red. One hand is clawed around the belt, trying to pull it off.

The car suddenly slows down, then veers to the right. Confused, Loki looks at the street straight ahead, and immediately regrets his mistake when Barton's left fist hits him in the face. He cries out, then lets go of the belt—second mistake, but he can't help it as the force of the blow throws him backwards. He hits the glass of the passenger side window with his head. 

Barton grips the steering wheel with one hand and pulls off the belt with the other. As soon as Loki moves to attack again, Barton backhands him, then grabs his hair and slams his face into the windshield and Loki blacks out for a few seconds.

Barton opens the window on the driver side and tosses out the belt.

Loki feels warm blood seeping from his nose into his mouth. That stench of human blood makes him gag.

Barton drives on wordlessly, as if Loki didn't just try to kill him. They drive for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, until the houses they pass become smaller, of reddish brown brick, and then even smaller, with broken windows, barricaded doors, and badly kept front lawns. Now and then a convenience store, a gas station or a lonely play ground interrupts the monotony.

Finally they stop in front of a small house. Loki didn't see the street sign, but the number is 77. All windows except for one are nailed shut with boards. The lawn is strewn with litter and all sorts of odd items—the rusty skeleton of a car, broken umbrellas, mouldy piles of clothing, rotting car seats, wooden slates, and a shopping carts. Barton gets out and opens the door for Loki in an ironic show of courtesy. When Loki remains seated, Barton snorts and drags him out.

"Come on, up with you," he says. Loki can see his face in the light of a flickering street lamp, and he has to tell himself not to be afraid. Barton’s only human after all.

Still, the eerie emptiness in Barton's eyes is unsettling.

The trench coat is hanging open now without the belt and he pulls the coat flaps together. Barton pushes the door open, and Loki blinks as Barton feels the wall to his right for the light switch. 

The room looks old and decrepit, with stained, dust-covered wooden floor boards and walls with yellowed wall paper. The source of the weak light is a single white bulb, hanging down on a black cord from the ceiling. 

Loki can still see the pattern of faded lilies, and outlines where photographs and pictures used to hang. The upper corners of the room are blackened. The few pieces of furniture, though, look new, if cheap: several white plastic garden chairs, two arm chairs, a large rug with the price tag still on, another smaller, thicker one on top of it. Someone (Barton?) purchased a pile of pillows and cushions and threw them onto a grey sofa. It is much too hot in here, although the heater in the corner of the room looks too small to produce so much heat.

Barton checks his watch, then effortlessly throws Loki onto the pile of rugs. He massages his neck and throat absentmindedly.

Loki looks around for anything he could utilize as a weapon. Somehow the episode in the car—the realization of his own powerlessness—has disheartened him. He wipes his face clean with his sleeve.

Barton pays him no attention but steps to the window and looks out. He seems impatient, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

"Expecting someone?" Loki asks, not bothering to get up. Once the pain in his head has subsided he can feel that heat crawling up through his spine again. He clenches his hands into the rug underneath him.

"Hm?" Barton looks at him as if he has forgotten him, then walks over quickly and yanks the coat off him. If he had hoped to unsettle Loki, it doesn't work. He arches into the light, displaying himself. Barton looks away, licking his lower lip, swallowing hard. He grips Loki's ankle, and the want that floats Loki's senses at that touch makes him shamelessly spread his legs.

Barton, inhales, his eyes black with desire, the bulge in his trousers visible. He shakes his head, then pulls the boot off Loki's foot. Loki presses his naked foot against Barton's crotch, gently massaging it, grinning, and for a while Barton not only doesn't move away but presses himself against that caress, clearly wanting more. 

"Better," Loki purrs, reaching for him, but Barton pushes Loki back.

"I'm not going to touch you," he says in a determined voice. He pulls the other boot off and throws it into a corner.

"I don't think you'll have a choice," Loki laughs, suppressing the cold stab of anger in his gut. "And why shouldn't you?"

Barton, he realizes with no small amount of glee, has made a mistake. He brought him here to exact some kind of revenge on him, but has miscalculated the effect an omega in heat would have on him because he has no way of knowing. He might be physically stronger than Loki, but now he has to fight his own desires without even understanding them—alone. 

Barton is terrified by his own lust for Loki.

He breathes heavily and circles Loki, careful to keep the distance between them.

Loki follows him with his eyes. 

His alpha is aroused. He can sense that Barton is hard and aching, barely able to hold himself back. 

When a muscle in Barton's jaw twitches and his fists clench and unclench, Loki moves.

An internal part of his mind is rails at him to stop this, but Loki simply cannot. To resist his nature is not an option any longer; the urge is too strong.

_Don't let him impregnate you._

And yet, Loki is aware that once he and Barton are copulating, he most likely won't be able to manipulate the outcome. If his instincts are already so strong that they overwhelm him and dictate his actions, how will he stay in control once Barton's cock is inside him?

(No, no, he is not afraid.)

Barton's wide eyes look panicked, and the sight floods Loki with warmth and makes him nearly purr. He can feel his lust surging through him like a warm, wet tide. His cunt is so wet it's quite literally dripping, so hungry for what Barton is hiding between his legs. 

The alpha in Barton is picking it up, that scent of an omega in heat, only he won't know what it is. Loki can see Barton inhaling, his eyes heavy-lidded. The length of Loki's prick is pressing into his lower stomach, the tip leaking. 

He's ready. He needs to be mounted. His lust, his wantonness increases with every moment in Barton's presence and slowly turns into torture, into pain.

He gets up onto his knees and scoots closer, and Barton doesn't move away. He licks his lips. Loki literally can feel his desire to flee, but also his inability to do so.

"Get up," Barton tried to order him, his voice hoarse. "Don't come closer."

"Do not fight it," Loki whispers. He can hardly see, so frantic is he. He will get off on Barton if that is the last thing he does.

_No, get away from him. Run._

Loki hisses with impatience at his own fear, that pesky little voice in his mind. He lays his hand on Barton's hip and grins up at him, licking his lips and biting them in a show of wantonness.

Barton moves his hand ever so slowly, his inner struggle visible in his face, and lays it on Loki's shoulder to push him away or to hold him there, Loki doesn't know.

Then a car pulls up and stops in front of the house. Another car pulls up behind it. 

Barton inhales sharply and shakes his head, as if awakening from a dream. He goes to the window and pushes the dirty greyed lace curtains open to look out. Then, to Loki's horror, he opens the door.

From outside Loki can hear voices, laughter, the slamming of car doors, steps approaching the door, and suddenly three—no, four men are standing over him, looking down.

"So, that's him," one of them says, wiping his mouth and raking his eyes over Loki's naked body.

Barton closes the door behind them. 

"Yep," he says.

"Pretty," another, younger guy says.

"What is this?" Loki demands to know, rising, but Barton is behind him in a fast, fluid movement and forces him down to his knees.

Alone the touch makes him gasp and he can't help the moan that escapes. His heat doesn't care if he is naked in front of strangers. If anything it flares up, and the men, lured by him, step closer. The one who spoke first, a man with a dark blue shirt and black trousers and reddish hair, grins down at him.

Barton's grip is relentless. Loki winces as he tries to struggle free, but Barton just twists his arms behind his back.

"Okay," Barton says. His voice is so close. Loki can feel his breath ghosting against his ear. "These guys are here to fuck you."

"How dare you—" Loki bristles.

"I won't force you. I'm not like you," Barton says, and despite the roughness of his voice, Loki can hear the underlying smugness. "Just think about it; we can go back home where there will be no one to fuck you. I sure as hell won't, and the guards won't touch you with a ten foot pole after tonight. _Or_ we can stay here and have a bit of fun."

Loki stills. And as much as he hates to admit it, Barton has the upper hand. Loki needs to be fucked, yes, ideally by Barton, but … anyone will do to relieve his heat. 

Barton presses a phone into his hand.

"Go on," he says. "Call Fury. Or Cooper. They can get you back to the tower within an hour."

Loki flips the phone open, expecting Barton to wrestle it out of his hand, but instead Barton releases his grip and steps back.

"Once you make that call, that little sex tape I made will go onto Fury's desk, and you'll likely never leave that tower again."

Barton is right. He can hear Fury's satisfaction, glad to have a reason to confine him.

_For your own safety._

Also, once he makes that call, he won't see Barton again. He should want that, but to be truly free of Barton, Barton would need to die.

_And I need to be the one to kill him. I need to be sure._

He snaps the phone shut.

The men just stare at him dimly, shuffling their feet like twelve-year-old boys.

Barton smiles and takes the phone out of Loki's limp hand.

"Don't think you'll regret it," he actually leers at him.

He takes his position behind Loki again, and the feeling of Barton standing so close to his back makes Loki shiver. He is so wet for him. Everything inside him yearns for Barton and for a moment he is tempted to beg.

"So to me he looks pretty normal," says the guy who spoke first. He rubs his crotch, his eyes shining.

"Wait," Barton says, then forces Loki around so that his ass faces the men, and pushes his head onto the rug. Loki struggles, furious that he can't loosen Barton's fingers on him. He reaches up with both hands. When Barton slips the fingers of his other hand into his cleft, he can't help but moan and push up, eager to be intruded.

Deep inside his mind he is screaming, infuriated by his own powerlessness, his betrayal by this lowly, weak body. He is not the navigator of this shell, he is not in command—his instincts are.

Barton's fingers stroke his wet, swollen folds without entering him and Loki's jaw goes slack. Barton lets go of his head but Loki doesn't move away. He can't. Instead he pushes his ass further up, desperate for Barton to enter him.

"Please," he moans. Above him he can hear Barton's ragged breathing, can feel the fingers on his cunt trembling.

Someone whistles. 

"Freaky."

The men laugh.

Loki wants to snarl at this creature, wants to retaliate, when a thought that was buried deep in his mind until now floats up through his daze.

_I am a freak._

Barton grips his hair and lifts his head.

"Still wanna get out of here?" he asks.

Loki slowly shakes his head, closing his eyes in defeat. He needs what is offered to him here even if it costs him his pride. And yet, his pride has brought him nothing but pain. And right here, right now it is the most useless thing he has left. 

Barton smirks at him, then pulls him to his feet and pushes him toward the men behind him.

"All yours," he says, then walks to a ratty, brown arm chair, where he sits down and leans back. 

Before Loki can object, the young, pretty guy presses his hard cock against Loki's wet, pulsing cunt, and any protest he was about to utter dies on his lips.

"Come on then," Pretty Guy says, and begins to fondle his nipples. Loki gasps and his head falls back.

"Look at this bitch," Pretty Guy whispers. Loki forces himself to open his eyes, and sees the guy's face hovering over him, wavy hair falling into his face, his brown eyes deceptively soft with long, girly lashes. His thin mouth is pulled into a cruel smirk.

The other guy, whom Loki silently names 'Number One' as he was the first one to speak, moves to Loki’s front and rubs his clit while slowly stroking his cock.

"Dripping wet, that slut," he comments. He smells of beer. "Can't wait to get fucked."

He presses a thick, calloused finger in, and Loki clenches around him.

The two others who have been silent so far—a very lean, tall older man with grey hair and his shorter companion—both unbuckle their belts and open their pants. The older one steps towards Loki and forces him onto his knees, pulling out a nicely curved cock. The fourth guy, also brown-haired but extremely well-muscled like one of those men who spend their whole day at the gym lifting weights, has an enormous cock. Bigger than anyone else’s there, bigger than Barton's. Loki suckles it and licks the tip while stroking Grey-Haired Guy's cock. 

For a minute there seems to be a struggle between the two men behind Loki, but then one of them grips his hips and in the next moment he feels the tip of a hot, thick cock sliding over his wet folds, teasing him.

Number One keeps pinching both his nipples and Pretty Guy slides in fully, which makes Loki moan loudly around the cock in his mouth, sucking harder. Grey-Haired Guy pulls Loki off and positions his own hard cock in front of his parted lips, smearing pre-cum onto his lips.

Loki darts his eyes towards Barton, but to his disappointment, Barton's upper body and face are hidden in the black shadows. He can see his legs, though, can see his crotch and the obscene way Barton is caressing himself through his jeans.

Not sure if he means to tease Barton or to anger him, he laughs breathily then swallows the cock in front of him as deep as he can, closing his eyes in pleasure. The man behind him reaches around him and strokes his cock, then almost tenderly brushes his fingers against his clit. 

"Ngh," Loki moans, his brain liquifying. Senselessly he pushes back, hard and fast, just needing to get fucked. Every time that cock pushes inside him, he pulses hotly around it, dripping more fluid.

"I wanna fuck his mouth," a gruff voice to his right says, and a moment later Loki is pulled off that cock and pushed onto his hands and knees.

He arches his back, looking around. Pretty Guy pushes two fingers deep into his cunt, then pulls them out and almost gently inserts them into his hole, first the middle finger, then the index finger as well and at the same time twists them. When he presses both fingers into the prostate, Loki yowls and spreads his legs further, hungry for more.

Pretty Guy starts playing with the rim of his asshole, caressing and rubbing it. "You'll need a cock in here, too, right?" he whispers and Loki nods eagerly.

"Please," he begs, nearly insane with want.

The men around him laugh, and then he feels a thick cock pushing in. At first the pain distracts him, enough to open his eyes and look toward Barton.

Barton is pressing the palm of his hand against his clothed cock, massaging it.

"This could be far more pleasant if you would partake, you know," Loki manages to say. 

"Someone shut him up," Barton says.

Grey Haired Guy grabs a fistful of Loki's hair and pulls him up, pushing his cock back into his mouth just as the guy behind him begins to fuck him in earnest. Greedily Loki laps at the leaking tip. He reaches down to fuck his cunt with his fingers and presses his palm against his clit, but regrets it a moment later; he feels his orgasm approaching much faster than he expected, and he can't prevent it. He opens his mouth wider, licking and slurping at that cock, and angles his hips so that the cock behind him drives exactly into his sweet spot, and only a moment later he comes, shuddering and screaming. He clenches around that cock in his ass again and again, and feels his own come spurting.

"Fuck, I'm coming," Grey-Haired Guy says with clenched teeth.

"Nnh ..." Loki breathlessly eggs him on.

"Come on his face," Barton orders, his voice thick with arousal and malice.

Grey-Haired Guy nods and when he begins twitching in Loki's mouth, he pulls out and covers Loki's entire face with his load. A lot of it lands in Loki's open mouth, and he swallows it greedily, licking his lips, then licking the softening cock clean.

"Like this?" the guy laughs and turns Loki's face into the light so that Barton has a good view.

"Good job," Barton says. His voice is unrecognizable, his breathing ragged.

"Are you close?" asks Loki silkily, tilting his head further back into the light of that single bulb hanging from the ceiling. "Closing your eyes, imagining how your cock would feel in a hot, tight cunt?"

"Okay, my turn," says Number One, then grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him up so that the cock buried in his ass slips out.

Pretty Guy curses softly, but Number One just says to him, "Lie down on your back."

Grumbling, Pretty Guy obeys.

Number One then pushes Loki slowly back onto the Pretty Guy's cock. By now his hole is large and dilated enough that he can just sink down on it and continue to fuck himself on it. 

"Can you lie down?" Number One asks, and Loki grins, lying carefully back. Pretty Guy grabs his hips from behind, stabilizing him.

"You okay there?" he asks.

As a way of answering, Loki grinds his hips back and Pretty Guy flexes his inner thigh muscles to let his cock twitch. Loki bites his lower lip as that thrust nearly undoes him.

He reaches for Number One, and Number One obliges, sinking to his knees, stroking Loki's thighs.

"You're pretty … amazing," he whispers, and it occurs to Loki that he doesn't want to be heard by Barton.

Loki parts his lips, and when Number One pushes his cock into his cunt, he lets out a moan that sounds nearly grateful.

Grey-Haired Guy sits on the floor to his left, leaning against the wall playing with his soft cock, watching.

Loki doesn't bother to suppress his screams any longer. 

The men begin moving inside him and it feels so good. They immediately fall into a rhythm, and hot, liquid pleasure spreads from his groins through his entire body. He reaches for the pain to keep himself from coming, to hold out a little longer, but then a thick cock is pushed between his parted lips, and he sucks it greedily. Number One leans down and begins to suck his nipples, and the feeling of his wet tongue on them makes Loki writhe and moan.

Then the man bites down on one of his nipples, sucking hard at the same time, and Loki shudders violently and comes, twisting himself up, impaling himself deeply on the two cocks. His orgasm pulses through him like electricity, like pure light. In this moment his body dissolves into pleasure and nothing else matters.

When Loki awakes he's still on that rug, every inch of his body covered in come. His face is drenched with it. At the time he had thought it an excellent idea and had egged everyone enthusiastically on. There was a perverse pleasure in debasing himself in front of Barton, who _refused_ to touch him and yet so clearly longed to. 

He let these men do exactly what he knew Barton desired to do.

Although he is sure that his rectum isn't intact after taking cock for more than two hours, he doesn't feel pain, only a slight soreness and an odd sensation from the hole's unnatural dilation and the come seeping out.

"Great timing," Barton says, and Loki twists his head.

Barton is standing at the window. After a while he turns and looks at Loki with an infuriating mixture of smugness, disgust and something else. It makes Loki's stomach churn, his blood boil with anger.

_Don't you dare look at me like this. You did this._

Barton crosses the room, finds the coat and the boots and tosses them at Loki.

"Get dressed, we're going back," he orders curtly. "Don't bother cleaning up, you can do that in the tower."

The drive is silent. At some point, they stop at a gas station. Barton fills the gas tank, then goes inside to pay. He takes a long time, and when he returns, he doesn't take them right back onto the road but veers into a parking lot behind the station. Only the front part is lit, the rest of the rather vast lot is dark except for a small building that Loki recognizes as a restroom.

They sit in the car, Barton cradling a cup of steaming coffee.

Loki can't help but remember the coffee Barton once handed to him, that cup of kindness.

Slowly Loki can see that there are several other cars in the parking lot—parked, like them, with the occupants still inside, waiting for something. Some of the drivers get out of their cars and lean against the hood to smoke cigarettes. Loki isn't sure, but it seems that they're all watching the entrance to the restroom, especially when someone enters or leaves.

One man in a red hood is drinking alcohol from a bottle in a plastic bag while another car drives by very slowly. The driver of the second car rolls down the window and they start to converse in a friendly manner. Loki wonders if they know each other. 

The car parks next to the red-hooded guy and the driver climbs out, stretching his limbs. The red-hooded guy offers him a sip from his bottle, and the other man accepts. After a short chat they both get into the red-hooded guy's car.

Barton pays them no attention, but he's scanning the parking lot. After another two or three minutes a tattered old Hyundai pulls up, then makes a slow circle through the lot, despite the fact that there are plenty of empty spots.

When the Hyundai passes their car, Loki feels an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach. The driver opens his window and tosses out a cigarette. His face is smooth and pretty, his hair ink-black and slick. He winks at Barton, and Barton raises his cup to him.

The driver jerks his head towards the restroom and Barton nods. The man parks his car by the restroom, gets out, and disappears inside.

Barton moves their car to park outside the restroom as well. He takes a large gulp of his coffee, then places it in the drink-holder.

"Do you need to piss?" 

It's the first time Barton has addressed him after leaving that house. Loki mutely shakes his head.

"Be back in five," Barton says. 

"You'll take longer to urinate with that in your pants," Loki says, lewdly pointing at Barton's prominent bulge.

"Let that be my problem."

Barton slams the door shut and walks into the restroom.

Loki amuses himself by going through the radio stations. 

He could easily smash the window and then run, but to what end? Where would he go? What would he do? He's still naked under his coat. He turns the light on and looks at his reflection in the mirror. He looks unmistakably debauched, dried cum on his face, strands of his hair sticking together, like the cheapest of whores. The stickiness between his legs is uncomfortable and he reeks of sweat and other bodily fluids.

He takes the coffee cup and presses his lips against the spot Barton has been drinking from. The rim of the cup is a bit moist and Loki darts out his tongue to lick at it, to taste Barton.

It's ten minutes or even longer before Barton re-emerges from the restroom—together with the black-haired boy. They stand in the weak light of the restroom entrance chatting, Barton laughing at something. His eyes are sparkling, Loki can tell. He seems flushed. They say their goodbyes as if they're old friends. At the last moment, the young man takes Barton's hand and entwines their fingers, then lets go. Barton gives him a friendly nod, and then they part. 

They fucked. They had sex. 

Loki places the cup back into the drink holder, his hands shaking with a strange emotion he can't name.

On his way to his car the man ducks a little to peer at Loki, and in that moment Loki's mind goes blank. (Later when he examines the events of this night he'll try to recall what he was feeling, but all he'll come up with is overwhelming rage, hatred, and a naked, ugly, nearly animalistic panic). Furiously trying to unlock the car, rattling the door and then battering with his fists against the glass, he screams himself raw with insults he didn't even know he had in him.

Barton slips into the car and yanks Loki back from the passenger window. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he hisses. The man outside stands frozen, gawking at Loki.

Cursing, Barton starts the car, but then Loki attacks him, too.

Loki can smell the other on him, the stink of sex, the fresh sweat, the perfumed grease of hair product under Barton's fingernails, and he can't hold himself back, he just can't, he has to get the other's smell _off_ Barton. 

"Fucking hell," Loki hears through his haze of blood-red, burning rage. He tries to land a blow on Barton's face but is hindered by the restricted space in the car. Barton easily grabs his wrist and twists it to pull Loki off him.

A knock on the driver's side window interrupts them. It's the black-haired man.

"Are you okay?"

Incapable of speech, Loki hisses tonelessly at him, and the man blanches and steps back.

Barton pulls Loki's wrists down.

"Sure," he says. "He just had a few too many."

"Wow, okay," the man says slowly, "it just looked like … is that your boyfriend or something?"

"Fuck this, I don't have time for this," Barton says impatiently, and closes the driver's side window. He pins Loki struggling to the seat with one arm and unlocks the glove compartment, fishing something out of it—something metallic. A moment later he cuffs Loki's hands, presses them into his lap and fastens the seatbelt across his arms.

They pass the Hyundai as they drive out of the parking lot and swerve onto the road. As Barton drives, he fumbles with his phone and connects it to a cable, then steers with one hand while pushing the phone's buttons with the other. 

The vile noise suddenly filling the car is so loud that Loki flinches, but Barton is undeterred, strangely elated.

He opens the window and turns the volume up.

  
_The party's just begun, we'll let you in_   
_You drive us wild, we'll drive you crazy_   
_You keep on shoutin', you keep on shoutin'_

Throwing his head back he laughs, nonsensically, loudly.

"Oh, man," he wheezes, slapping the wheel to the rhythm of the song. 

"That's much better, isn't it?" he yells at Loki over the deafening music. 

He turns the music up even louder.

_I wanna rock and roll all night._  
 _I wanna rock and roll all night._  
 _I wanna rock and roll all night._


	14. The Game Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long! I am still in the process of writing myself out of a plothole the size of Greenland. I am insanely grateful that some of you lovely people read this and like it.
> 
> * * *

He can't remember how he got into his bed. He faintly remembers Barton pulling the coat off him and tossing him into the shower, turning the water on, then leaving.

Sometime later, maybe hours, Loki comes to himself, still under the hot water. He mechanically soaps his entire body: his genitals, his cunt, his hole. He is kneeling on the tiles, leaning against the fogged glass. 

He isn't sure if he's crying or not because the warm water is running over his face, but he doesn't want to know anyway.

At least he is so tired he can sleep. 

No desires visit him this night.

His menses arrives in the early morning hours, and he has to get up, change his underwear and rummage for the cotton pads the doctors left. He catches his reflection in the mirror: His eyes look blank, the pupils tiny. 

The effort to clean himself up exhausts him, and he falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He sleeps for days. 

Now and then he is interrupted by people wishing to visit him, but most of them can be turned away. Even Fury takes one look at him and closes the elevator doors without stepping out after Loki explains that he has been in heat and is left exhausted.

Underneath his hard exterior Fury can be squeamish, and Loki's sexuality is something his orderly, binary mind shies away from.

When he isn't asleep he watches TV. He doesn't even remember what he's watching, just idly flicks through the channels, letting colors and images and sounds wash over him. 

He barely feeds himself. The task of unwrapping the cutlery from the linen serviette and opening the lids of the dishes seems too much to bother. Untouched trays pile on the dining table, and are picked up again by the blank faced staff of Tony Stark.

On the fourth day after his heat, Cooper comes by. He asks her to refrain from examining him; surely it can wait another day. He looks at her with pleading eyes, feigning cramps.

She hesitates. The examinations are strict S.H.I.E.L.D order, but he can't let her see the signs of his activities: the bruises on his knees and the scratches on his arms, his back, his neck, are still visible.

"Does … do you also feel this pain? During your monthly bleeding?" he asks her, his voice pitiful. "Is that normal?"

She laughs at his crass description.

"I never suffer from pain," she tells him. "And we call it a 'period.' I thought you already googled that."

She looks at him shrewdly, then bends down and says in a low voice, "All right, no exam today. But I have to examine you next week, okay?"

Loki nods. He made her break a rule. Excellent. 

Cooper goes to the bathroom and brings him a glass of water and painkillers.

"I gain weight and that makes me a little cranky," she says, taking a seat on the bed. 

(He notices how close she is. So careless. He just could reach out and slam her head against the nightstand. One doesn't need Asgardian strength to do that.) 

"Oh, so you're vain!" Loki says, biting his lips while smiling at her.

"Well, yes, I am horribly shallow," Cooper says, grinning.

Loki takes his painkillers.

"Do you also … get hungry? Although you actually feel very full?"

Now Cooper laughs openly.

"I think you should stay in bed, watch a nice movie and order some chocolate!" She pats his knee. "That is the Midgardian treatment for problems like this!"

"I like your treatment then, Dr. Cooper," Loki says. "Chocolate is definitely better than being pricked by so many needles!"

She briefly frowns then gets up.

"I'll see you next week," she says. She reaches out and takes his hand. "If you need anything, you can call me."

"Thank you," Loki says, pressing her soft, little hand. He can feel her heartbeat accelerating slightly.

 

After a few days the bleeding stops. Anxious energy replaces his numb lethargy. He is pacing his spacious apartment, restless, feeling caged and with growing irritation and anger he submits a request to leave the Tower using Jarvis as a messenger.   Fury calls him the same day, acknowledges the request, then sends him a phonebook-thick manual about what he is allowed and what he is not permitted to do on his first outing. Only when Loki signs the ridiculous paperwork and sends it back, Fury calls him again, granting him his request magnanimously. Loki nearly loses his temper, when Fury repeats at least twice how any privileges will be _immediately_ withdrawn, should Loki’s behavior be less than satisfactory.

The preparations for his first outing are more exciting than the event itself.

S.H.I.E.L.D tests the GPS devices in and on his body and tells him the exact route they are taking two days in advance. His clothing is laid out for him, although he doesn't have a clue why. It's not as if he could conceal a weapon.

Cooper and Banner have to examine him _again_. If Loki is flattered about S.H.I.E.L.D's scrutiny he hides it behind a perfectly bland mask. They submit separate reports which Fury and Hill evaluate.

To avoid unnecessary tumult, Loki is only accompanied by a man and a woman, both highly trained and experienced field operatives. 

They leave the tower, cross the street. When a group of teenaged girls spills out of a store, the man grips his arm and steers him through. Helicopters are circling above them on the blue sky.

Nobody (except for the snipers positioned on the roofs of the surrounding buildings) looks at him. No one turns around, no one screams at his sight, no one points their finger at him. No one recognizes him. 

Not that he's disappointed. 

Only, one should think that attempting to conquer Earth should have left a lasting impression. He is ever so slightly dismayed.

Back at home he googles himself. 

He can't deny feeling _relieved_ when he sees that his search yields 25,000,000 results (only considerably dampened by the realization a few clicks later that 'Thor' results in 84,600,000 results). The image search shows that there are photographs of him standing on Stark Tower, blurry snapshots of him in front of the art gallery in Stuttgart, but _none_ of them show his face.

It takes him a moment to realize that these are the results of the combined efforts of S.H.I.E.L.D and Odin All-Father. Odin wants to protect him from the wrath of Midgardians, but he feels diminished, invisible. 

It is as if he never existed.

 

The first time he speaks to Natasha Romanoff is in the cafeteria on the ninth floor. The S.H.I.E.L.D employees, who order their pricy lunch sandwiches there, have gotten used to him since he has been coming down here to sit at a table by the window and stare at the Manhattan sky line and the many construction sites that have sprung up after _the incident_ for quite a while now.

"Not wise for a man like you to sit with your back to an entire room of people who despise you."

Loki forces himself to finish his tuna parmesan pesto sandwich, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin before he answers.

"There are no men like me."

"Funny."

Romanoff sits opposite him, dressed in a colorful wrap dress and donning a convincing blonde wig. She is supposed to look like a pampered upper class wife, but her eyes give her away. 

Loki raises an eyebrow at her get-up.

She rolls her eyes. "I did worse for a mission." She pulls the wig off and tosses it on the table.

"Well at least you are allowed to leave this place," Loki says, putting down his cutlery.

She smiles. "Haven't you been out lately yourself?"

"You know I have," Loki replies, keeping a pleasant expression on his face. 

"Must be strange for you to not be recognized by anyone," she muses. 

"I did have my fifteen minutes of fame, I suppose." He lifts his shoulder in a manner he has seen on TV—a gesture to indicate cluelessness, but also indifference.

"Oh, cultural references," Romanoff says. "What's next, your own Twitter?" She frowns. "Wait, just forget what I said."

This woman grates on his nerves to no end, the way she looks at him, as if he is only a thing. She has no fear, no respect.

"Why are you sitting at a table with me and conducting small-talk? Aren't there any people you could murder or hospitals you could set on fire?"

Romanoff only smiles an unpleasant, reptilian smile. Loki's irritation grows further when he remembers that he has seen a similar smile on Barton's face. He wonders who stole it from whom.

"I want you to know that I am watching your interactions with Clint Barton."

Loki yearns to say something acidly to that, to insult her. The fact alone that she knows he is afraid of her (she must know) fills him with silent, seething rage. He thinks he is good at hiding it behind contempt: so far she might believe he's wary of her because of their conversation on the helicarrier.

"Is it wise to tell me what you know?" 

"If I find anything I don't like about it, _anything_ , I will request an hour alone time with you, and you know I have means and ways to get it."

From Barton's memories Loki remembers that Romanoff is a skilled interrogator. She never seems to take pleasure from inflicting pain on other people, but she surely does not hesitate. A few months ago, she would not have done much damage to him, these days, however, in his thin, fragile shell …

"You're not the only one, who has means and ways to get to me," Loki thinks sullenly, but displays a bored expression on his face.

"Let me assure you, you will not enjoy my company," Romanoff tells him.

"Does anyone?"

Romanoff is not insulted.

"I feel flattered that you dislike me even more than Dr. Banner," she says. 

Loki narrows his eyes briefly at her. 

"Do you remember our conversation on the helicarrier?" Romanoff asks in a light tone.

"Are you still reveling in your miserable little triumph? If you must know, I _let_ —"

"Yeah, whatever," Romanoff interrupts him rudely. She leans forward, studying his face intently. 

"Do you remember how you asked me if this is love? Between Clint and me?"

It occurs to Loki that she purposefully says "Clint" instead of "Agent Barton." 

Her face is absolutely blank. 

"Yes," he says.

"So, do you know?" 

He blinks.

"I assumed at the time you simply wanted to throw me off with that question, but you read Clint's memories as he told me. You must have known the answer."

Under the table Loki's hands claw his thighs. He swallows, aware of his overwhelming urge to snap her neck.

Of course she'd kill him, before he could even lay a single finger on her.

Barton has loved Natasha Romanoff from the moment he looked into her eyes and recognized that they had suffered the same damage.

As a very young man he has deluded himself into desiring her as a lover. He misunderstood the play of his hormones, thought the fever of his lust love, but unlike many young men in his circumstances he was never afraid. When he grew out of his childish yearnings without resenting her for not indulging his sexual desires, she began to trust him, view him as her equal and since then they are truly connected. They developed a much stronger bond—the bond siblings have. (There are parts of this bond Loki fails to understand, a further reason to despise Romanoff and her cat-smile.)

There is no such thing as an unbreakable bond though.

"Come, Agent Romanoff. Let's be honest. Let us not play games. At night does it arouse you to have a man like Barton devoted to you, burning for you? He pretends to treat you like a comrade, but in his dreams he fucks you until you cry his name, and you revel in it, don't you?"

Romanoff's face doesn't betray anything, but he can see something flicker in her eyes.

"You know he wants you. You know the fire in his heart that he hides. You know. You pretend not to, but when you are truly honest with yourself you know his desire."

He smiles.

"Are you such a coward that you cannot admit this to yourself?" 

Romanoff gets up.

"Oh, Loki," she says. "You've lost your touch."

She won't believe him now. Not today, not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, but eventually she'll remember his words. Perhaps Barton will say something, or he'll just look at her, and she'll suddenly have to think about the things Loki told her and ask herself if he had spoken the truth. It'll be enough to unbalance this friendship. She'll remember how Barton was once convinced of his love for her, and she'll ask herself if he's really changed his mind, or if he simply learned to pretend and it won't leave her alone.

Without even realizing it herself, Romanoff will erect a distance between her and Barton.

The beautiful thing about doubts is that, once sowed, it is impossible to get rid of them. 

Once planted in the mind they'll always lurk in the subconscious, and as soon as something, _anything_ happens, they will rise to the surface. This is how Loki learned to lie a long time ago. Not just concoct that elaborate lie when it is needed, but rather slip tiny seeds of doubt into fertile minds, carefully, one by one, let them sleep, let them take root and grow like shoots in the dark, muddy earth.

One can try to cut them back with reason, with argument, but soon enough the doubt will grow again.

It is something that Loki discovered early: everyone has something they're afraid of. Everyone has this one small doubt, that one question they're afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer. 

_That_ is where one has to plant the hook. 

 

As more days pass he increases the frequency of his walks in the Tower. He accesses the floors he is permitted to enter and strolls around, seemingly aimless. At first the security personnel is always on alert when they see him, visible in the tension of their stony miens, the stiffness of their back, the twitch of their hands, but soon they relax. 

Most days he tries not to think about what happened to him, what Barton did to him.

Loki never explains to Cooper or Banner their mistake. If their crude, pre-historic dated machines can't distinguish fear from what he is actually feeling, that is really their problem and not his. He'd rather bear the humiliation of them thinking he's cowering in fear than letting them know he's full of this pesky, filthy longing.

He can tell that S.H.I.E.L.D is getting somewhat complacent with him. When he first arrived he was monitored by eight men, who were exchanged every hour. They had been masked so Loki could not see their eyes, but even so, Loki knew that no man repeated his shift twice. 

Now only two men are guarding the elevator. They don't have to wear masks and armor any more, although they of course carry hand guns. The guards switch every few hours. 

They are allowed to talk to him and he takes care to greet them when he leaves his apartment and after a while even chitchats with them. 

Like everyone else, they too get used to him.

He watches TV. 

At first he flicks from one channel to the other. Almost all of them repulse him. In the end it's all about having things, about human greed. One might think if one's life is so limited one might have focus on something other than base, animal sentiments, but then this is the very reason why they are so low. They only dully sense the infinity of the universe, but because of their own limited life spans and minds they can't possibly grasp it. Why be pained by something they can't ever hope to understand? Better to look away and pretend it doesn't exist.

They are greedy, dangerous little children, their immature minds full of unnamed hunger.

As the days go by, he notices how he lingers on some channels. The simple children's programs tell him how they learn. The ads show him what lives they desire for themselves, what dreams they chase, what they fear—and they fear so much, but never what they should be afraid of. They live in a world built of their own illusions and mirages and are afraid to lose them, as if they are real. It is, Loki cannot help thinking, what makes them such good slaves.

They have just enough intelligence to serve a god, but never enough understanding to become one.

There is a temptation to let his mind be filled with these images, these lies. It's easy to lie back and just forget himself and the roaring, deafening emptiness he feels. 

Books are delivered daily and Loki reads them. _The Great Gatsby_ , the works of Shakespeare, Marlowe, Kerouac, Huxley, Steinbeck, Dickens, Faulkner, T. S. Eliot. He reads obscure things, diaries of dead queens and kings, of heroes and villains, explorers and philosophers. He leafs through centuries of art and gazes at Bacon, Richter and Hirst, Caravaggio and Hockney, Schiele and Gerstl. 

Soon he switches from paper to electronic reading devices. 

He studies the architectural books about the cathedrals, towers and skyscrapers. 

He comes across Mishima, Murakami's Tale of the Prince of Genji, Hannah Arendt, Kierkegard, Michel Foucault (who Cooper adores), and the realization hits him with full force that now he'll need translations. Before he was made human he spoke and was understood. No language was unknown to him but if he were to go back to Germany now, he would not be able to understand the words. 

Now he is tied to one language only, English, an unsettling notion. 

He reads random papers published by a variety of scientists. During one of his rare visits, Stark recommends Machiavelli to him, but Loki finds him rather blunt and instead demonstratively reads Danielle Steele (one of the cleaners left him her copy of Sunset in St. Tropez) in front of Stark, only to rile him.

He orders magazines, and studies Moschino, Hermes and Comme des Garcons. He looks at painted faces and emaciated humans, ghostlike fourteen-year-old children dressed like adults who are considered beautiful. Interesting how differently humans perceive beauty, but it makes sense that a race that has only moments to live admires youth and the adolescent body. 

As he leafs through the glossy images it occurs to him that they don't worship the peak of their lives, the moment when they are the strongest. Humans are so afraid of their death that their peak is already too close to their inevitable demise. What they long to preserve is the moment _before_ they bloom—where they're still blank sheets, untarnished but also weak and vulnerable, _children_.

He orders contemporary novels after reading lengthy reviews, watches movies, plays, documentaries, listens to Vivaldi and Bach. He then entertains himself with the works of Elvis Presley, Wagner, Mahler, then Britten and Schönberg.

He peers at everything that the humans created, what they birthed with their feeble, primitive minds. He scrutinizes their words, their thoughts, their songs, laughing about the leitmotif that defines all these works: that tomorrow, in an instant, life is gone.

In his melodramatic moments he cries, feeling sorry for himself (although sometimes he cannot tell if that thing in his chest, that pain, is really sorrow and not rage). He shares their fate now, is as mortal as them. It disquiets him that human words affect him more than they did when he was a god, when he was immortal. Not only his flesh has been altered—the very core of who he is is being twisted into something else. Everything is poisoned.

One day, for example, he reads a book about a boy who claimed he had grown up in solitary confinement and became famous as Kaspar Hauser. Later, though, people came to the realization that he was a pathological liar. Only when he was killed did people come to believe his claims again. Hundred years after his death, researchers came to the conclusion that the boy had accidentally killed himself: he had inflicted knife wounds on himself to support his claim to be the lost or kidnapped son of an aristocrat, possibly a king. 

For a reason he can't fathom, the tale remains stuck in his head for days; the boy who died to turn his lies into truth. What was it he wanted in the end? 

He reads about wars, plagues, power struggles, the rise and fall of religions. 

All these dead gods.

 

He thought he had more time until the next wave, but he wakes up three weeks later at 9 o'clock in the morning, fingering himself, desperately trying to fuck himself into orgasm, only he can't reach _that_ spot with his fingers, can't even seem to locate what a couple of strangers effortlessly hit a few weeks ago with their cocks.

His legs are trembling violently, and as he climbs out of bed to retrieve the bag Cooper gave him, he crumples to the floor. High on lust and craving, he pulls the bag towards himself, grabs something, _anything_ , and pushes it into his hungry cunt.

The relief is so immense he cries out, arching his body from the floor, toes curling. He rocks back onto the dildo, his wet cunt making slick noises, and within a minute he orgasms, his cock twitching as it empties itself on his stomach.

If he thought that he would be able to rest after that, he's sorely mistaken—almost immediately after the last aftershocks subside, he feels his cock harden again. He nearly screams with frustration, thrusting the dildo with angry movements in and out. 

He needs more. 

When his hands are steady again he reaches into the bag and pulls out another object while still languidly fucking himself with the smaller, black dildo. 

The other dildo is a lot bigger, and unlike the slim object in his cunt, modeled to appear more realistic, with ugly, thick veins along the shaft and a tapered tip. 

And then there is that thick knot at the base. A small pump is attached to it, and Loki doesn't need a manual to know that it's supposed to inflate the knot. There is more … _accessory_ : a short hose with a vial or tube that can be filled with water or any liquid he wants to spurt into himself. He ignores it for the time being. 

Loki hesitates. Now that he has no magic he has to be careful with his body and yet, as his fingers brush over the knot, his entire body heats up with renewed longing, both his holes clenching hungrily.

He briefly imagines Barton hunched over him, knotted to him, sweating, pushing in, and Loki sighs, pulls the small dildo out of his cunt, and takes both dildos into the bathroom. He slowly lowers himself into the cold, empty bathtub. The enamel and marble help him to cool down a little.

Taking a deep breath, he grips the large wolf penis and begins teasing his folds. Immediately every nerve seems to light up with pleasure, and Loki is ashamed that he thinks of an actual beast fucking him, getting ready to mount him. He feels how puffy and wet his cunt is, so slick with his lust.

He turns around, getting onto his knees. It takes a while to find the lube and another moment fiddling with the plastic bottle until he figures out how to open it. He pours it over the huge wolf dildo until it glistens and looks even more obscene than it already had, and Loki wants it more than ever.

He pants with anticipation, incapable of suppressing his whines and moans.

Finally he's ready, and he lowers his upper body down to the ground, cheek pressed against the cool enamel. Briefly he wonders who is watching, but suppresses the thought quickly. 

He needs this, he needs the breeding, and he can't, _won't_ allow himself to dwell on the shame.

The thin, tapered end of the dildo glides in effortlessly and he thrusts shallowly at first, continuing to tease himself. His cunt begins to drip, and his moans echo in the tiled room. He needs more and as he inserts the cock deeper, it brushes his sweet spot deep inside, and he nearly yowls, lifting his ass up and pushing back.

Although the part of the base where the knot sits isn't inflated yet, he feels it push against his folds, feels the resistance and how his body opens up, wanting more.

"Please," he gasps, not knowing what he is begging for, just that he has to. He increases the rhythm, fucks himself harder and faster and deeper, and every thrust makes him shudder. His cock begins to drip as well.

He fumbles around for the pump and begins to enlarge the knot until it feels big and heavy enough to press against his cunt and perineum. He needs to feel the stretch; his body demands it. For a while he slows down, just angles the cock in a way that it presses against the front wall of his cunt, and every time he does it, he nearly orgasms. 

Finally, he can't take the anticipation any longer and pushes the knot in. He grits his teeth against the searing pain, feeling tears rolling down his face, but also the undeniable heat wave of sick, shameful pleasure.

He couldn't tell his body to stop enjoying it even if he wanted or needed to. 

_And he would not be able to stop._

Not even if the entire court of Asgard were gathered here—he couldn't stop.

What if Barton were to walk in? See him on his knees, fucking himself with that thing. The thought alone sends a wave of burning lust and renewed shame through him. He imagines how Barton would watch him, stroking his own cock, shower him with spiteful insults, humiliate him further by calling him a bitch. 

Maybe Barton would pull the dildo out of Loki and slide his own thick cock in. Loki imagines it's Barton behind him, growling, panting, pushing into him, claiming him.

His next moan is almost a scream as he finally pushes the entire knot into his cunt. _It hurts it hurts it hurts_ but oh god, before he can dwell on the intense spike of pain, it melts into boneless pleasure again.

Blindly he gropes for the pump and begins to pump the knot up, chasing that sharp pain, that filthy feeling of being filled and bred like a bitch.

Maybe next time he can get a large dog to do it. The thought makes him even wetter, and he desperately spreads his legs, fucking himself on the knot.

His cock is leaking pre-cum, pooling on the cold surface between his legs, and he can feel his orgasm building in his cunt, in his ass. He needs something in there too. He grabs the slim, black dildo he used before, licks it, then pushes it into his ass. His hole is not really stretched but it slips right in; he feels that delicious friction between the dildo and the wolf cock and he howls with pleasure, his prick stiff and wet.

Closing his eyes, he imagines the scene from that night, the men standing around him, Barton watching him as he debases himself, pleads and whimpers, and it's too much. He shoves both dildos deep inside of him, and his cock twitches and he comes, screaming and moaning like the bitch in heat he is.

The good thing about the large dildo is that he can instantly deflate and pull it out. Without getting up, he pushes the tap with his foot and manages somehow to close the drain before he falls asleep.

After soaking for half an hour in the hot bath, he empties the bath and instantly refills it with cold water, feeling incredulous rage as the heat stirs again.

Only when his skin is almost blue and shriveled does he climb out and call Banner.

Banner arrives fifteen minutes later to examine him (as usual), but these examinations are increasingly superficial. Today Banner only takes twenty minutes, then sits down with him in the living room.

Loki offers tea and Banner blinks, surprised, and accepts. For a while the conversation is about Loki's health. His blood pressure is low and, like Cooper, he expresses worries about his weight. Also, he is worried that Loki might be on his way to developing depression (he doesn't straight out say it, but his questions about Loki's routines indicate as much).

Banner is angry about S.H.I.E.L.D's insistence to keep him locked up, although he doesn't go into detail. Loki can see it in the way Banner's lips twitch when he speaks about S.H.I.E.L.D's decisions.

He lauds Loki's ambassador tea, strong Earl Grey with orange blossoms.

"I'm not surprised to see that your taste is refined," he says.

Loki smiles.

"It calms me," he replies.

They speak politely about tea, Stark Tower. Banner asks him if he has any questions, any concerns.

(As if he has not thrown him against a wall and into the ground a few months ago).

Loki is quiet for a while before he speaks.

"You told me that you're working on a medical treatment for my condition," he says.

Banner looks immediately guilty.

"We're working on it, but S.H.I.E.L.D is still hesitant to provide us with funds. Without the money, everything will take longer. So far we have only one sort of heat suppressor, but it works only temporary and has severe side effects."

"What are the side effects?" asks Loki, interested.

"Well, first of all, we don't know how effective it is. Receiving no funds also means we can't conduct as many tests as we would like. It is likely though that it will dampen your heat for at least two hours. Unfortunately, you'll be heavily sedated during that time. I am not comfortable with testing it on you—it's still a crude formula and we have to rule out damage to internal organs, other possible side effects …" he trails off.

Loki doesn't say anything, trying to hide his disappointment.

"I'm sorry," Banner offers. "I really, really wish I could do better than I am doing now."

"Thor will help," Loki says. "He can fund the research, or at least contribute."

Banner opens his mouth and then closes it again, looks at his hands.

"You asked him already," Loki says tonelessly.

"I'm sorry."

"He said no." 

"Thor thinks your heat is something you should learn to accept. He doesn't believe in treating it. He thinks that developing blockers for your libido will interfere with your nature."

Loki inhales sharply. By now he should not be surprised by Thor's hypocrisy and his limitless idiocy. For an instant he is tempted to demand to speak to him, but in the next moment he knows it's futile. Once Thor has made a decision, he’s unlikely to change his mind.

"That sounds very much like Thor," he says finally.

"I am so sorry."

Loki just feels rage, rage of a crystal clear purity. It's so overwhelming he can't even open his mouth for fear he'd scream. He is suddenly nauseous with hatred. 

"That doesn't mean I'll stop working on it," Banner says almost passionately. "Eventually we'll find something. There are so many options we haven't tried yet. And there is also Tony Stark."

"Of course, ask the man I threw out of the window," Loki laughs bitterly. "If I am not wrong, Stark is contributing quite a large amount for the reparations of New York City. I doubt he'll have funds left for the alien who nearly defeated him and caused the same destruction he is paying to repair."

Banner cringes. "He'll come around."

Loki has had enough of this farce. He leans forward until he's close to Banner's face, can see the dark brown eyes of the man and the dangerous glint behind the warmth.

"We both know the true reason, so let's not avoid the issue here," he says icily. When Banner's left eye twitches nervously, he knows he's right.

"They hope I will find my alpha. Or that he finds me. They hope I have someone to subdue me, to tame me, don't they?"

Banner licks his lips. His eyes nearly dart towards the camera in the corner of the living room.

" _I_ don't, Loki. Dr. Cooper doesn't. Tony … doesn't. Not really."

Loki leans back, watching Banner’s soft, stupid, eternally apologetic face. The infuriating thing is that even though Cooper and Banner are firmly on his side, they are both not leverage enough to be of any need. 

"Thor does, yes, and S.H.I.E.L.D and, well, Fury, Barton … but Tony … Tony needs time to understand. You are right; he's not yet over that incident. You almost killed him after all … but Tony … he just needs to think this through. He knows what is right and wrong in the end."

Loki can only nod. 

"I guess that has to suffice?" 

"In the worst case, we still can give you something to knock you out for a few hours, but we have to be careful with it. I can only give you one dose, one injection per heat cycle, more would be dangerous."

Loki remembers the injection he was given for his first heat. The hangover afterwards hadn't been pleasant, and unfortunately it hadn't even affected his heat or his craving that much, but more his ability to act on it.

It is still better than nothing.

Banner lets him lie down because it's a knockout dose of Morphine he says. It's stronger than last time because almost instantly after he watches the needle sink into his skin, he finds his eyelids drooping. 

"Sleep," Banner says, and his voice sounds very gentle. Loki wants to thank him, but he is already gone, pulled under.

 

When he wakes up again he knows he is not alone. There is a strange dissonant hum in the air, a shrill, jarring kind of silence. 

He sits up slowly. The panic inside him is nauseating, the fear crippling.

An old man in a shabby grey coat is sitting in an armchair near the window glass. Loki can't see his eyes, but he recognizes him instantly.

"You," he says, but then he remembers that he speaks English now, and the old man might not understand him.

Except of course the old man in front of him is not the same old man who dared to defy him in Stuttgart, refused to kneel and show deference.

No need to waste time in asking how he got in here. The taste of magic in the air says it all.

"What are you?" Loki asks, leaning back against the headboard. The hum in the air intensifies, and the sudden thought that he once used to understand and read that noise in the air is a painful punch in his gut.

Magic from the Nine Realms, a language he once could speak better than anyone else. Now it's nothing but an irritating grating noise.

The man tilts his head slightly, and Loki watches the interaction of shadows and light on the planes of his face.

"A visitor," he says in accent-free English. 

"You are not from Midgard." Loki states the obvious.

The man smiles lightly. He lifts his hand. He is wearing a ring with a strange stone in it, blood red, but black in its center, unsettling like an eye.

Loki has seen that ring once, hundreds of human years ago, on another, paler hand. 

As the man slips the ring from the finger, it's as if he's throwing a shadow that elongates and fills the room. The arms become longer, thicker, strong legs stretch, a torso twists toward Loki. The entire form rises, then crouches, limited by the ceiling. 

For a moment Loki sees a face hovering only inches from him, dark-red eyes, golden lines, indigo skin. Despite the darkness and the shadows, Loki can see the royal lines, the same as Byleistr wears, only this is not Byleistr.

Then the ring goes back onto the finger and the form vanishes, shrinks back into the illusion of an old, mortal man, sitting in the armchair, much like before, and studying him with what looks like mild curiosity. When he turns his head slightly, the pale light from outside falls across his face and over red eyes.

"What did you sell to buy yourself Amora's magic, Frostgiant?" Loki sneers.

The man stands up and crosses the room until he stands at the end of Loki's bed.

"Do you really not know who I am?" he asks.

There is a moment of silence before Loki says, "Helblindi. You are Byleistr's brother ... which makes you _my_ brother."

His hands clench and open in a movement, that once would have instantly created a barrier between him and an attacker but not the slightest hint of magic comes forth, of course. 

The man plays with the ring on his finger, reveling in Loki's panic.

"So that you know, I regard you as a lowly, filthy little creature, lower than vermin—a crawling, lying, murderous, spiteful thing, a thing with no honor I would gladly crush under my foot," he murmurs, " _but_ I am not here to end your wretched life. Not because I think you my brother or my flesh and blood as that fool Byleistr does, but when I secured myself Amora's support she made you part of the negotiations."

Loki remains silent, curious while Helblindi studies him with open disgust.

"My brother, the king, will visit you very soon."

"A family gathering." Loki can't help but smirk. "How charming."

Helblindi ignores him. 

"Thor of Asgard has requested his assistance to help you … cope with your nature, you see."

Ah, Thor! That was perhaps to be expected. 

"Byleistr will request an official audience with you, and despite your disgraced status, address you in every possible way as a Prince of Asgard _and_ Prince of Jotunheimr. Typical of Byleistr; he'll flatter you to gain your trust. Officially, he'll ask you to help him understand your actions and explain your current opinion about your heritage. His plan is to offer you his forgiveness and, upon that, access to the court of Jotunheimr, which he is desperately building as of now. Byleistr has already secured the casket of Ancient Winters, sent his most trusted warriors into the furthest corners of our realm with the task to oversee the growth and future prosperity of these regions. His immediate steps are to establish a regular communication with you and invite you to stay at his court—after you have openly and publicly repented and apologized for your actions of course. This would serve two goals: it would endear him to the Asgardian court, proving that he is a peaceful, thoughtful ruler, uninterested in revenge and vendetta."

He pauses, leans forward and the shadow falling over his face obscures his features.

"But the second far more relevant purpose is to bind you to Jotunheimr. He understands that Thor and Odin both regard you as their kin despite you not being of their blood, despite all you have done, and he seeks to use this insight to his advantage. As warriors we must always seek to detect weakness in others. You are Thor's sole weakness, and in gaining control over you, Byleistr will gain control over the future king of Asgard. This will be especially helpful since the council your esteemed brother established, in order to divert power from the throne and the king, is hesitant to issue a formal apology about the destruction in Jotunheimr your unwarranted and unprovoked attack wreaked."

He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. 

"Not that he will do much about it. Byleistr has no regard for our traditions. He plans to uproot and discard all that is our history, all that we are. He is a traitor to our old ways, glib and well-versed in speech, but underneath faceless and opportunistic." 

"Why should I object to this plan?" Loki asks. "So far I cannot see where my disadvantage would lie."

Helblindi raises an eyebrow.

"No? I guess not, since you have poor knowledge about us, and especially about the Royal house you belong to." 

Helblindi rises and approaches Loki. 

"The real reason you may not be told is that Byleistr is able to recognise your Alpha."

Loki is very, very careful to not move a single muscle in his face despite Helblindi's unmistakable, hateful leer.

"Byleistr then will inform Thor and S.H.I.E.L.D of the identity of your Alpha, and you will be bonded to him. Once bonded, you will cease to be a threat."

Loki is glad for the darkness because he knows that all color has drained from his face. What will happen to him, once S.H.I.E.L.D. knows who his Alpha is? What chance will he stand?

"I am not even a threat in my current state," Loki points out, although he can't help thinking he shouldn't really remind Helblindi of that.

"You are still a danger to Asgardian and Jotun people. They have not forgotten your actions, and knowing that you're bonded and … harmless will also improve the relations between Asgard and Jotunheimr. At the moment, Byleistr needs Asgards support in rebuilding our realm, but the council is hesitant in offering. Once Byleistr subdues you in bonding you to your Alpha and taking you in, Thor will be grateful enough to grant the support."

"I don't want any of Byleistr's help," Loki says coldly. "I will not accept it. I will refuse his request to meet."

"You will do no such thing," Helblindi hisses, and an ice-cold hand lies on Loki's thigh.

He gives Loki a grin that disfigures the borrowed human features, and Loki manages not to scramble away from him. 

"What is it, that you want from me?" he asks.

Helblindi grins.

"I want you to kill Byleistr."


	15. The Point Of No Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I am not happy with this chapter, but it's my third attempt. For some reason this part was difficult to write for me, technically. Anyway, now it's out, and I can finally start posting the other chapters! Whew!
> 
> Also, sorry for the long wait. And thank you for reading. And thank you for liking it. I don't deserve you.
> 
> * * *
> 
> PS: I apologize here that the chapter is less homogenous and straight-forward than the others. I hope, in time, this makes sense.
> 
> Which reminds me, that were it not for Anzie (xdawnie on Livejournal) who graciously beta'ed this mess, it would much more of a mess! THANK YOU, DARLING!

It takes two months after the incident until Thor returns Loki with an Asgardian entourage and a small escort from Jotunheimr to Midgard.

Býleistr will live. He could have died, but Asgard and Jotunheimr joined forces - a politically necessary action, as Loki’s attempt on his life would have cost the fragile truce between the realms which could only be achieved through Thor and Býleistr’s efforts.

Helblindi, on the other hand…

Jotunheimr is grieving. Even though Helblindli plotted against his king, Býleistr mourns his brother, slain by Natasha Romanoff. Some of the older Frost Giants do not comprehend his decision; mourning is done in private, and it has never had any ritualistic or sentimental meaning. Funerals at Jotunheimr are not sad affairs—they are the commemoration of warriors, an honor to the men fallen in battle, celebrated with the rare gift of fire so their bodies burned to ashes. Death is not to be feared, the dead not to be mourned. 

To die in battle is a glorious thing for any Jotun.

Helblindi did not die in battle. He lied, he schemed and he betrayed. Laufey would have buried Helblindi’s body in some forsaken corner of the realm to never be spoken of again. Thus no Jotun would remember him, no tongues would form his name: traitors and cowards are meant to be forgotten. 

Yet, Býleistr gifted him with a funeral for heroes. The king had Helblindi's body adorned with jewels, the indents between the marks of his lineage filled with gold, and the lids of his eyes painted with the dust of emeralds.

His funeral pyre burned bright in the darkening sky.

Býleistr moved some hearts with this gesture of forgiveness, but some disliked his sentimentality. In bestowing the same honor upon a traitor that they would have given a hero, Býleistr made a mockery of them. 

Forgiveness does not belong in the world of ice and darkness.

For now, Býleistr lives, weakened, unable to leave his palace or move on his own. Although he has not spoken to Loki since Loki tried to pierce his heart with the scepter, he has officially extended his forgiveness to the younger Prince, asking Thor and the council of Asgard for leniency. 

Even so, Loki has supplied Helblindi’s men with crucial information on how to gain access to Asgard and the palace, resulting in the murder of Odin and Frigga; Býleistr’s plea for forgiveness on behalf of Loki may well have fallen on deaf ears.

No more is known. Thor’s messages were clipped. They relayed only crucial information, but not more. “The king and the queen are dead,” he wrote.

Nothing more. 

A few days prior to his return has he sent Sif as a messenger to the Avengers to announce them.

Director Fury stands tall in his black coat, with Maria Hill—with her hands, as always, behind her back with her feet braced apart—behind him.

This time S.H.I.E.L.D. is only a bystander. 

The presence of the agents wearing impeccable black suits, crisp white shirts and reflective sunglasses is merely tolerated by the Avengers and by Thor. 

This time the Avengers, standing behind the panorama window of Stark’s penthouse suite, are the ones dictating the rules. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. has failed on too many levels. 

Director Fury’s face is blank. Only the movement of his eye betrays he is following the event at all. 

Clint and Natasha, as S.H.I.E.L.D. employees, should be standing with Fury and Hill, but today they stand with the Avengers, apart from the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

When Loki finally emerges from the helicopter, cuffed and collared, all eyes flit to Clint, then away. Clint pretends he doesn’t see, staring impassively at the approaching Asgardians from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Carefully, he keeps his posture relaxed, watching as Thor steps out after his brother.

Even from a distance Thor looks diminished, tired. They walk slowly up the ramp towards the penthouse.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents pull out their guns. 

Wordlessly, Thor embraces his friends. Everyone expresses their condolences in solemn voices. Behind Thor, Loki stands with his back straight, his eyes down. He is chained once more, though no longer gagged. Thor tells them that Loki won’t hurt anyone any longer, prompting Steve's response—that S.H.I.E.L.D told them the same a few months ago. A fatal miscalculation, as it had turned out. 

Thor insists. 

Steve, Natasha and Tony remain sceptical. Only Bruce Banner seems to be completely neutral in this.

"Look at me," Clint commands Loki. His voice is hoarse and dark, almost unrecognizable.

Steve jumps at that sudden interruption. Tony looks up, mildly surprised. Natasha just observes Loki with detached curiosity.

“Barton,” Thor says, his voice strained and tired and exhausted.

Loki’s head snaps up, and everyone—even Clint and Thor—avert their eyes when faced with Loki’s inhumanly, bright blue gaze.

When Clint finally looks back at him, he finds Loki’s gaze is still directed at him, but as intense it is, it also seems eerily unseeing, like the gaze of a blind person.

The color of the scepter's influence. Clint’s doing.

Maybe in a way Loki is kind of blind now.

Yeah, Loki won’t ever hurt anyone again. He won’t be able to

Clint has single-handedly taken care of that. 

Fury says nothing, only watches. 

"Kneel," Clint orders Loki.

Loki falls onto his knees in a fluid movement, his eyes never leaving Clint’s face.

"Who is your alpha?" Clint asks.

"You are," Loki says. His voice is clear. Natasha smirks at the amount of adoration in it. Clint grimaces before he checks himself. 

Loki’s eyes never leave his face.

"Is he a mind-controlled robot now, or is there something of the old Loki left in him?" Tony asks, walking to his bar to pour himself a whiskey. Behind his trusted flippant mannerisms he displays the curiosity of a scientist. 

"Oh, it’s him," Natasha says as she paces slowly around Loki, taking in every detail, staring at his face, peering into these terrible blue eyes. "This is Loki, but caged."

"Inside a mind-controlled robot," Tony says, toasting them. Then he empties the entire glass in one go. 

Thor presses the back of his hand against his lips, then lets it sink again. 

"I must leave now," he says then, his tone flat. "I must return to Asgard."

"What about Jane?" Steve asks. "I thought you were going to stay on Earth and—"

Thor shakes his head.

"Those plans no longer matter," he says. He does not look at Loki. "After the attempt on Býleistr’s life and the passing of the king and the queen I am no longer free to do as I desire. There is unrest both in Asgard and in Jotunheimr. If King Býleistr dies, there will be war. If he lives, we must work harder than ever to secure peace and prosperity."

He is looking down at his clenched fist which slowly unfurls back into a relaxed state. His nails have made crescents in his palm.

"But surely you can still see her?" Bruce sounds slightly bewildered.

"I cannot," says Thor, in the same odd flat tone. "I am expected to take an Asgardian bride. The situation is already explosive. If I were to take a Midgardian bride, there would be no predicting the events that follow. I have already many enemies in Asgard."

He is silent for a moment. 

"I cannot bear to say goodbye," he says softly, more to himself than anything. 

“Don’t leave her like that,” Steve says. 

Then he frowns, and it takes Clint a while to see that Thor has tears in his eyes. Before Clint can say anything to him Thor walks up the ramp.

At the doorway he pauses, but does not look back.

"Farewell, Loki," he says. 

Then he is gone.

 

The next weeks and months are filled with tests, conducted in S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities but always under the watchful eye of either Bruce or Tony. The results are all the same. 

Loki cannot harm people any longer. It is unlikely he can harm anyone ever again; the tests are conclusive, says Bruce. He presents stacks of reports with complicated graphs and readings. He mails everyone files, video clips of extended observations, exhausting sessions of hour-long interrogations and cross-examinations. Some of the tests are cruel, inhumane—bordering on torture at times—but in the aftermath of Hellblindi’s attack, no one objects. People are too wary of Loki to give him the benefit of the doubt any longer. 

Valerie Cooper did.

Natasha, Clint and Steve are almost asleep while Bruce, in one of their mandatory weekly updates, shows them another test and points at the screen. It is an achievement of a sort that Bruce manages to _bore_ people while explaining Loki’s sexuality and the changes that are to be expected now that Loki’s alpha is known—but Clint can see Steve nodding off and Natasha stifling her yawns behind her hand. Only Tony has no difficulty taking in Bruce’s scientific rambling. When he can be bothered, he turns around to the others and translates it into actual English.

Bruce explains in detail Loki’s reproductive organs, hormonal levels, even Loki’s _fucking period_ (at least that topic wakes everyone up), his fertility and his heats. 

Above all, Loki is compelled to obey his alpha, Clint Barton. That too has been doubtlessly proven. He seems to crave Clint Barton’s proximity, seems to suffer from depression and anxiety, when Barton is not near him. Likewise, he feels the need to please Clint when he is near (says Bruce). 

On the other hand, Clint can only be pleased by Loki’s absence, so this is going to be a problem. He doesn’t point that out though, only stares nonchalantly at the charts.

Since Loki’s return, Clint was sent out on two S.H.I.E.L.D. missions (deliberately) and both times proved difficult for Loki. It got to the point where Bruce finally had to prescribe medication for his anxiety. On his end, Clint is diagnosed with insomnia, troubled sleep and nightmares, but he still can function; he completes his missions with extreme success. Afterwards, he is immediately subjected to tests and examinations, but despite his nerves, he passes them. 

Natasha has never told anyone of the things she knows, for which Clint is insanely grateful. Maybe she has come to the conclusion that Loki being Clint’s omega explains the dynamics between them, too. She certainly never brings it up with him, even when he trains with her alone. He is aware of this now, in every interaction, and he knows that despite her silence, she is observing him. Natasha is loyal to him, but her loyalty is a soldier’s loyalty. 

Thankfully she is gone for the moment, along with Steve. "A mission," is all Hill will tell him and nothing else. 

After Loki’s return, the privilege of a large flat was revoked. His new accommodation is a room on Clint’s floor, something Clint vehemently protests. However, Fury and Hill (with the help of Bruce and an entire team of scientists, doctors and mediators) bully him into tolerating the new situation. Thor, his goddamn council and the Frost Giant king have made clear that they expect Clint to take over his 'responsibility'. He and Loki are, in the vague, spiritual words of Býleistr, 'meant to be together'. Thor and the council see Clint, more pragmatically, as Loki’s watcher.

While Thor tries to salvage the peace between Asgard and Jotunheimr to prevent war, and while Býleistr struggles against death, they expect Clint to cooperate. No one has the time now to deal with an unbound, unguarded Loki. Thor sent a message using courteous words to invoke friendship, honour and whatnot, but Clint can see that underneath the polite phrases, this is the order of the king. _Take care of Loki or else._ is the real message here, and it infuriates him that everyone else yields to that to sacrifice _his_ life, his personal freedom.

"Of course this is going to be difficult …" says Bruce, trying to placate but his voice briefly failing him. His eyes beg Clint to understand. 

Then he clears his throat. 

"You’re not alone in this," he adds, "We’ll help. We’ll keep S.H.I.E.L.D. at bay—no offense, Director Fury." 

"None taken," Fury mutters, almost sounding bored.

"We’ll ensure you'll have your privacy, your life. And we’re working to solve this… situation."

"Why not simply kill him?" Clint blurts out. Loki, who is present, flinches and looks at Clint with his large, sickeningly blue eyes. Bruce shoots him an accusing look.

(Of course he doesn’t really mean it. Does he?)

Every time Clint sees these eyes, the mindless servility in them, that damned color, he feels nauseous.

In the end, of course, he acquiesces.

The horrifying thing, however, is that Clint is not sure why he agrees to take in Loki, to play this fucked up game of dominance. He tells himself that it was an order that he can't refuse, that his life is about following orders but deep down, he knows that every time he looks at Loki his fingertips twitch, knows that there is something in Loki’s now subservient attitude that crawls up his spine like liquid metal.

For one short instant he locks eyes with Bruce and thinks, _I cannot take this burden because I cannot be trusted with Loki. I will destroy him._

He does not know if Bruce understands, but his eyes widen.

Then Fury speaks, Clint looks away, and the moment is broken.

Clint gives them his verbal agreement, then a while later his written consent, where the mind-numbing, lengthy process of signing consent and approval forms begin. 

Nobody mentions it but no one denies that Clint’s apartment isn't going to be monitored. The negotiations over the limitations are detailed, a conversation that fills Clint with bone-deep exhaustion. He finds cameras in the living room, on the terrace, in the hallways, and several in Loki’s room. Listening devices everywhere, even in his storage room and the study he uses to store his tools. They battle over every little bug, Fury’s tech-department minions downplaying the range and capability of every fucking device. Clint’s bedroom and his own bath room are off-limits, as well as the corridor leading to his room, the one that veers of the main corridor. They haggle about the location of the cameras in the main corridor until Clint wants to bash their heads in.

In the end Clint and his new… property are escorted to Clint’s floor. Clint leads the way into his room, where the agents leave them.

And then Clint is alone with Loki.

Loki does not look around; he just stands and stares at the floor. 

_Think of him as a blank computer._

Clint recalls Tony’s words. 

_He needs to be re-programmed. Control him, give him orders. He needs stability and a framework of rules._

"Sit," he orders. Loki sits on the ground.

Really? Clint thinks, it’s going to be that literate? 

He actually meant for Loki to take a seat or sit on the bed … but whatever. Clint rubs his face wearily. He is tense and tired all at once.

"Okay, so… let’s do this," he says, taking a deep breath. "Tell me what you want to do now, okay? And if it’s possible, I'll let you do it."

There is a long silence.

"I would like to be allowed to look at you," Loki says quietly.

Clint exhales.

"Whatever," he says. "Look at me then."

Immediately Loki raises his head, and Clint feels the burning emptiness of his eyes. "Is that all? Don’t you want to go to the toilet, take a shower, have something to eat? You can do all of that, by the way, without asking me every time, ok?"

"Okay," Loki echoes, and Clint thinks how odd it sounds coming from Loki as if he is using a foreign word he isn’t sure of. Loki is quiet for a while before saying, "You are tired, Agent Barton. May I pour you a bath and prepare a light dinner?"

Clint looks at him for a long time, searching for any sign of the god who cold-bloodedly had a hand in his own parents’ assassination—who moments before he was taken down had threatened to kill Clint, and who would have made good on his threat, too.

"Do whatever you want," he says, knowing that this is not a wise order to give, but god, is he tired. Clint drags himself into the living room and plonks down on his sofa. Switching his TV on, he starts channel-surfing. In the background he can hear Loki moving around the apartment, and he _knows_ that there is no reason any longer to be afraid of Loki; they have proven it time and time again. Still, Clint takes out his phone and checks the handy app Tony has downloaded onto his phone; he can locate Loki in real time via the nano GPS tool in Loki’s bloodstream. At the time Tony was showing it to him, Clint had been dismissive of it but yet ten minutes into the new situation, Clint is staring hard at the layout of his apartment, at the little green dot on the screen.

He notes that Loki is in the kitchen, standing in front of the knife drawer; then Clint sees him walking into the bathroom. Cautiously Clint slips a knife out of the pocket of his jeans. It’s only a small blade, but someone with his training doesn’t need anything more than that to kill. In truth he doesn’t even need the knife to kill, but after all these tests he still feels vulnerable approaching Loki with empty hands. 

In the bathroom Loki is standing with his back to the open door, humming under his breath as he peels open the plastic sheath of a sealed bottle of shower gel. The water is running, filling the bathroom with steam.

Clint knows how to move soundlessly—after all, he’s a trained agent—but is still surprised when Loki takes no notice of him standing in the doorway, observing him. 

Loki the god would have sensed Clint’s presence minutes ago. 

Then an alarm goes off, and Loki startles. He wipes his hands on a towel, and upon turning around nearly runs into Clint. He backs away with his hands raised, says, "Agent Barton," in this weird breathy voice, then falls onto his knees.

"Stop that bullshit," Clint says brutally. Loki looks up at him, confusion on his face, and Clint looks away. 

"You don’t have to kneel."

Loki gets up, his head lowered.

"I took the liberty to pour you a bath," he says, biting his lips before continuing, "I hope this wasn’t too forward of me." Loki steps to stand in front of him. "May I?" he asks. 

He gently brushes his hands over Clint’s shirt, and begins to unbutton it.

He stares at Loki’s white skin; his slightly parted lips; the curved, long lashes; the black eyebrows. How perfectly beautiful he is.

Loki quickly glances up at him from underneath his lashes in a strangely coy manner, and Clint feels the gentle pressure of Loki’s fingertips against his skin.

Loki is seducing him. 

"I can undress myself," he says, taking Loki’s wrists. In that bright lights of the bathroom, Clint can see how Loki’s pupils dilate until the black drowns out the blue. He swallows.

Clint is hard. There is nothing more than he wants to do than bite into Loki’s skin, pull him down onto the floor and take him right here on the tiles.

"Please let me," whispers Loki, and he sinks down onto his knees. Leaning forward, he mouths Clint’s erection through the denim of his jeans. Clint can feel the heat of his breath. 

Closing his eyes, he steps away. 

"Leave," he grits out. 

Loki gets up immediately to obey. 

For a while Clint regards the steam rising up from the bath, then, with a sigh, finishes undressing and steps into the water.

When he walks into the living room, he sees that food is sitting on the dining table. He heads into the kitchen, where Loki is washing the dishes. 

"Stop this," he says, and before Loki can say anything, "I don’t need a butler or a chef. Just behave as if you’re, I don’t know, my flatmate. Do your own thing, leave me alone, that's all I ask."

Loki looks bewildered. After a while he says, "Before you told me to do what I want. This is what I want. I want to serve you."

"I changed my mind," Clint tells him, annoyed.

Loki tilts his head.

"You had no issue with giving me orders before, Agent Barton," he says.

"That was when you weren’t a mind-controlled puppet," Clint says, "when you were still you."

Loki considers this.

"This _is_ still me," he says. "Do you not remember your own thoughts in the time you were with me? When I did to you what you did to me? You liberated me. You _saved_ me."

Clint stares at Loki. 

"You were going to kill Býleistr. You killed Valerie Cooper and so many others that day. I did what I had to do," Clint says, knowing how hollow he sounds.

"You fought me. You defeated me. You did not have to do what you did," Loki insists. A strange smile lights up his face.

Clint has never told anyone how he knew what would happen—not even Natasha. 

Before the alarm sounded, before he got Fury’s call, he was already on his way back to Stark Tower. (Later he told himself it had been a hunch—a meeting with Loki and Byleistr, _unsupervised_. Of course something was bound to happen.)

Fury, Hill and everyone else who heard him bought his lies about why Clint was already in the tower (where he had found poor Valerie Cooper’s slashed body, sans her hand—Loki had used her prints to get access to some of the levels), armed to the teeth, when the meeting started. Why he was in Tony’s penthouse when Loki opened another portal, this one magically powered by that goddess-bitch Amora—Clint had never heard of her before, but apparently she was an old friend of Loki's. 

The powerful wind on the roof terrace prevented the microphones from picking up the conversation between him and Loki on that day. Loki had been easily defeated—overthrown in a matter of minutes, actually. Clint had located Loki, standing motionless, directing the scepter towards the sky. 

Clint still remembers the image: right purple light pouring out of the tip of the scepter, Loki’s face white as a death mask. 

_High above them, thick and heavy clouds were forming, lazily circling the light like a reversed malstrom, expanding from its blackened center._

_Clint aimed his gun at Loki._

_"Stand down," he shouted over the growing roar of the portal. "Drop the scepter."_

_Loki smiled, almost serenely._

_"Ah, Agent Barton," Loki said. "Are you ready to die?"_

_Clint looked up at the darkened sky and saw that the light was now dancing across the thick clouds which were growing in intensity. The roaring sound became almost deafening, and the sky began to pull apart to reveal absolute blackness._

_When Loki turned to look at Clint, he could see that Loki’s face was smeared with blood._

_With a smooth movement Loki brought down the staff, aimed it at Clint and shot a beam of light from the tip; Clint's gun was knocked out of his hand._

_"You will die, Barton," Loki promised, baring his teeth in an mad grin, "I will kill you and then I will rip out your heart and devour it."_

_Clint ducked the next blast of light, rolling to the side, and he reached into his sleeve for the knife he kept there; he threw it. With a scream Loki let go of the scepter; it clattered down onto the ground and fell almost directly in front of Clint, as if it was meant to be there._

(Even now Clint tells himself that he did not plan it. None of it.)

_On the other end of the rooftop, Natasha and Thor were fighting Hellblindi with furious gusto. Steve was still on a mission. Tony was, when S.H.I.E.L.D contacted him, in Peru, and was on his way back, but wouldn’t arrive at Stark Tower in time._

_No one saw how Clint picked up the scepter and weighed it in his hand; it felt light, like a child’s toy, but it vibrated in his hand, humming in a way that beckoned to him sweetly._

_And Clint knew what he was going to do next. In that moment no other choice existed._

_Loki was still cradling his hand, clearly shocked by the amount of pain his human body could feel; blood dripped onto the concrete floor._

_"I could have aimed at your artery and let you bleed out, like you did with Býleistr and Cooper," Clint said. He walked over and pulls Loki up by his hair to throw him onto his back._

_Loki’s eyes fell on the scepter and widened with fear. Clint grinned wolfishly._

_"Do you know what it’s like being in the cage of your own mind?" he asked casually, enjoying Loki’s silent panic. Loki attempted to pull himself up, but Clint was above him in an instant. He straddled Loki’s waist, pinning his arms to his sides with his thighs. With one arm he pinned Loki’s throat to the ground while the other raised the scepter._

_The look of panic faded to a smile. "No," Loki said, nearly smugly, "you won’t do it. You are better than that. Your conscience won’t—"_

_Clint pointed the scepter at Loki's chest. "My conscience. You don’t really think I still have one, do you?"_

_"You've already defeated me," Loki pointed out. "You don’t need to do this."_

_Clint laughed._

_"Actually I think I do," he said. The scepter felt so good, exciting and smooth—like fucking. Everything felt perfect._

_"Please," Loki was begging now, all attempts at superiority thrown to the wind. "This will destroy you. You are a good man, Agent Barton."_

_Impatiently, Clint clamped his hand over Loki’s mouth, then pressed the tip of the scepter over Loki’s heart._

_Loki screamed into Clint’s hand and arched up in a perfect curve before convulsing in spasms. Clint felt current after current going through the staff into Loki’s body; he observed Loki's eyes, which were squeezed shut in agony._

_After what felt like years, Loki grew still. The scepter felt cold in Clint's hand. He threw it away; it clattered on the ground. Breathing heavily, Clint stood up and looked down at Loki. He had his eyes closed; he looked unconscious. Cautiously, Clint bent over him to check his pulse and breathing._

_Then Loki opened his eyes._

_Startled, Clint took a step back. Loki’s eyes were a clear, arctic blue—the color of the sky over a frozen lake._

_Loki’s voice sounded like gravel when he finally spoke._

_"Master," he said._

"Agent Barton," Loki says.

Clint blinks, looks at Loki.

"You saved me," Loki says. He is cradling his left hand now—it will probably never regain its original dexterity and flexibility after the knife pierced it. At least the little finger and the ring finger are useless for now, as the nerves and tendons have been severed.

"You healed me," Loki whispers, stroking the reddened scar on his hand. "You saved me." 

Clint turns around and flees.


	16. Servitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up—I added new warnings, so please read them before reading. I don't think I am overly graphic about anorexia, but it is definitely hinted at, and it definitely will become one of Loki's many, many issues, but it won't take center stage. 
> 
> By the way, if you find anything else, that you think needs a trigger warning please tell me so. Lastly thank you very much, Anzie, for improving this chapter and making it readable!
> 
> (Also if any of you would be able to beta one or two chapters, I would be immensely grateful! It's a loooong fic, so any help to make it less crappily written is greatly appreciated!)

In the days left alone in his cell beneath Asgard, Loki invented a new game to amuse himself with. He called the game, 'What If'.

What if he had killed Barton the instant he saw him on the roof top instead of goading him, instead of stupidly stalling? (Loki had hoped Helblindi would make his appearance quickly enough so Loki would have no need to kill Barton. He could have kept him chained and collared: his alpha pet, his own human fucktoy.) 

Above all, he had not believed the Black Widow could have bested Helblindi. It should have been impossible. Yes, she slayed her way through a number of Chitauris, could have killed of some of the frost giants, but Helblindi, the warrior prince? One of the strongest fighters of the Nine Realms? 

Before it all, he had briefed Helblindi about Romanoff’s fighting style, even _explicitly told him_ that he had only a very limited amount of time until Thor made his appearance, but the mad beast had either wanted to toy with what he mistook for a weaker opponent or simply took too long to fend her off. In the moment Loki felt the snowflakes on his face, felt Heimdall’s magic and the electrical charge of Thor's arrival, he knew in his heart that the fight was already over.

The words of the dead man came to his mind then: “You lack conviction.”

What if Valerie Cooper had not suddenly stood before him in all his desperate glory? What if he had not raised his scepter to slash her open with its sharpened tip?

During the frantic planning where he and Helblindi went through the logistics of assassinating Byleistr, he had not thought of Cooper. He had thought to keep some of these humans alive: some to torture, to starve alive and drive insane until they would be forced to turn to cannibalism. He would have liked to see that. Some of the humans he thought to keep as his servants, the ones who didn’t treat him with disdain, like Cooper. (He had planned to use her contacts amongst those they call 'mutants' to utilize these creatures—a plan he had not shared with Helblindi, who had been focused entirely on his brother anyway.)

Sadly, the scepter is more powerful with blood: human, Asgardian or Jotun blood, it did not matter to it. Life essence strengthened the sealed magic within the scepter, especially since it could not connect with and feed off Loki’s magic any longer. Loki had made his decision. He had fed the scepter her blood, then severed her hand to get through the two locked entrances.

(And besides, it is not his fault. People like Valerie Cooper know from the moment they make their choice to sign with organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. that they will die a violent death.)

What if Loki had not taken the left corridor, and had taken instead the right (just as he had been told by Hellblindi, who in turn had received his information from one of the frost giants in Býleistr’s entourage)? The right corridor should have been empty too, save for two guards, but for some reason it had been swarming with armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. One of them had even been speaking with a high-level agent (Loki still thinks it was Barton but isn’t sure). Loki had to change his plans and take the other corridor, and—

What if Loki had not stabbed Býleistr at the first opportunity presented? 

He had greeted Býleistr in a friendly manner, had acted remorseful but also vulnerable in all the ways he had known he must. Býleistr had, for some reason, labored under the erroneous impression that Loki _desired_ to find his alpha, and, foolishly determined to help him, had reached over the table that separated them to touch him. 

Loki had been too afraid that there would be no second moment like this, and he had taken his chances. It hadn’t been the perfect angle to attack but he had thought then it would have to suffice.

What if he, on one of his monitored outings, had not, according to Helblindi’s plan, accepted the scepter, disguised as a trinket in an op-shop?

(Amora had planted it there, with one of her minions in the store under the guise of a shop assistant. He had slipped the ring onto Loki’s finger; Loki’s guards looked briefly at the ring, scanned it even—but the scanner did not pick up the other-wordly magic.)

What if Loki had not worn this ring day in, day out. What if he had not let Amora’s loyal, dark magic caress him, letting it seduce him? (Oh, to have magic again, to feel this life-affirming, eternal surge of energy flowing through him, just this time he is not its generator, only a mere conduit.) 

What if he had not told Helblindi how to access Asgard and the inner chambers of the palace? 

He had known that revealing another secret pathway to the Jotuns would condemn many to violent deaths. And in the depth of his blackened heart he had _known_ that Odin and Frigga would die.

But did they not deserve to die? They killed him first: condemned him to a slow, torturous death in turning him human. They had _made_ him do this. He is only a victim of consequences, of their mistakes.

What if he had, in the moments leading to the revelation of Asgard’s secret pathways to Helblindi, thought of the many conversations he used to share with Frigga? What if he had remembered her voice, her words? The way she had loved him, as he knows she did. What if he had remembered that last time he saw her, sitting on Hlidskjalf?

Frigga knew, he realized later. She had known what he would do. She had seen her own death. 

(He wonders if she forgave him. Is that not what mothers do? Forgive?)

The way Thor had _looked_ at him.

Loki had thought there would be thunder, rage and pain given life through storm. Thought there would be hail and tears, storms and fury. Yet when Thor had landed on the tower to aid Natasha against Helblindi, he had brought only dry snowflakes floating down over the city from a suddenly grey winter sky the color of ash, and a sharp chill cutting through the warm, golden glow of a late summer afternoon.

Thor's face was a mask, his eyes hollow.

What if he had refused to be part of Helblindi’s and Amora’s insane plan? Had not alone the combination of these two been a bad omen? Amora had been a talented and deeply loyal sorceress, but Helblindi had been simply mad. Loki had neither understood why nor how she had begun to collaborate with Helblindi, saving instead that question for later when he could meet her in person. Loki, in his arrogance, had believed that he and Amora could have used Helblindi to kill Býleistr, to overpower S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers; wished to later be rid of him so they may together invade and take over Jotunheimr.

(That idea, too, is moot. Thor had Amora executed. For proof he had sent her severed head to Loki’s cell, where it had lain for days, rotting. Loki for all his diminished powers hadn't been able to tell if that head was really hers. She might have been able to leave her shell behind and inhabit a new body, but for now he has to take Thor’s words at face value.)

What if he had not, in his panic and fear, invaded and brutalized Barton? 

(It seemed a necessary move then, but reliving it pains Loki. He has hurt him.)

What if he had simply killed Barton when he could have, rather than enslaved him?

It should have at least crossed his mind, but it hadn't. He had wanted Barton. And now to even consider the possibility cuts him deeply too. He could have never killed him.

What if he had not let go of Gungnir on that fateful day he hung above an abyss.

The problem with being the god of mischief, lies and deceit is, that sometimes it is hard for even Loki himself to tell when he is lying. There was a moment, when he let go of Gungnir, in which he knew that he would not end. He had traveled the realms as a sorcerer and knew the voids between the paths, and their secrets. He knew deep within his heart and hidden away from his conscious self, that dying was not an easy feat for a god.

His feverish, dramatic soul craved death and annihilation, because he was sure he could not live like this—continue to exist as a failure. Yet he knew there was another part in him, lurking underneath. That part was strangely removed from his other persona, could never be deceived and always coldly observed and watched.

And while he thought himself preparing for death, he already opened up his magic, called upon protection and steered his fall in a way that brought him safely through the gateways and the passages of the universe. 

What he had not been prepared for was the presence of the Chitauri on the forsaken planet he had chosen to hide. 

Thinking of the Chitauri always ends in physical pain, so he tries not to. How skilfully they had stripped him of himself, had laid everything bare and turned him into an animal. Not even now, in the safety of Midgard and Stark Tower he can face these memories. (How they took him apart, then pieced him together again, but differently, with parts missing.)

He has never told anyone. He has burnt his own memories to ashes, lest they destroy him with their poison. The only memory he cannot divest of, is that moment, where he was offered freedom from his omega fate. He should not consider it, and yet, there are days where he wishes it could be done.

What if he had not decided to play this deadly game of power, to gamble for the throne of Asgard? What if he had not gone to that S.H.I.E.L.D facility in New Mexico?

As Thor's brother, with his own set of skills, he could have had a comfortable existence. He could have waited in the shadows, honing his magic, gathering his supporters, silently corroding Thor's work, and then pick a suitable moment to usurp the throne. One of his plans had consisted of poisoning the grip of Thor's hammer, to daily apply a small, almost imperceptible dose of a potion that would have driven Thor slowly mad and turned him into an unpredictable monster. Asgard would have begged him on their knees to take over the throne. It would have been an easy feat, but there would have been no glory in that.

What if he had never laid eyes on Clint Barton?

The game always ends with this. What if he had never seen him. Never looked up that day in New Mexico, the man climbing around in the rafters with ease, moving with such grace. 

What if?

What if...?

What if. 

 

There are days when Loki wishes Barton would show him the sadistic cruelty he had shown him before, when he sought him out in his cell and dragged him from his heavily guarded prison/apartment to have him defiled and humiliated. If Barton were to now have him fucked by strangers, he would gladly bear it, if only to see a glimpse of satisfaction in Barton’s eyes.

He thought, now that he had been made Barton's, with the touch of the scepter over his heart that Loki would be glad. His heart had been an empty, cold space before, dead and rotten, before Barton freed him, and now it feels so full, so full to its brim with his love for Barton, so full with devotion and purpose but now it can also feel the pain and the sorrow.

After the first two days of living together, Barton leaves abruptly on a mission, or at least that is what Dr. Banner tells him. Dr. Banner comes by weekly for an hour, even though he doesn’t always have to, to try to speak with Loki, but Loki does not comprehend what Banner wants from him. Since he knows how dear Banner is to Barton, he puts great effort into being pleasant to Dr. Banner. If he can make Banner like him, maybe there is a chance of Barton warming to Loki.

When Loki feels too afraid and sad, Dr. Banner gives him pills and helps him swallow them with water. He takes care that Loki is allowed to leave the tower regularly. S.H.I.E.L.D. provides the agents and guards to escort him (far less than before though; man power is expensive, and they have other more important projects at the moment) but no longer have a say in any decisions regarding Loki, which was one of Thor’s stipulations. The decision wether Loki is allowed to move freely in the tower and the neighboring area is up to the Avengers, who Thor and Asgard nominated as guardians. Of course, the position was offered mainly to Clint Barton, but Barton shrinks away from these responsibilities.

One of the Avengers, either Steve, Tony, Natasha or Bruce (Loki can't remember who) announces Barton’s arrival to Loki a day before via text.

Loki has prepared himself for this moment. He has carefully sifted through Barton’s memories and memorized the look of the people he was infatuated with, and emulates how they look. He washes his hair with lemon verbena, because Barton’s first love’s hair smelled of it. He has spent hours on what to wear and has now chosen a soft t-shirt the color of the ocean. Barton likes this color. He likes the sea and the sky. Loki wears dark denims and, dressed as such, now looks like a young Midgardian man in his twenties. 

He has discreetly combed his lashes and eyebrows, has applied the merest hint of perfume, barely noticeable: Barton used to love a woman called The Mockingbird, and remembering her still hurts Barton's heart. She wore this perfume, albeit a bit more of it—but Loki doesn’t want to be too obvious. He just wants to... he can’t put in words what it is he wants. 

(He wants to vanish and become someone else—someone who Barton could learn to love.)

 

When Barton comes back, he is in a dark mood. He dumps his suitcase on the floor of the living room and stomps into the bathroom to take a shower, where Loki has already prepared a hot bath for him. From where he waits, Loki can see Barton warring with himself at the sight of the steaming water. He doesn’t want to accept Loki’s services, Loki supposes, but he is also tired and exhausted and the bath is _perfect_.

Loki holds his breath.

“What the hell,” Barton murmurs, then undresses and steps into the tub. He sighs. 

Loki knows these things—Clint _likes_ taking baths but has rarely time for them. When he lived by himself he never bothered to pour himself one, but now he has Loki, and Loki will take care of him as much as he can. 

As much as Barton lets him. 

Loki goes to his room and takes a seat on his bed. As he fixes his gaze sightlessly on his room door, Loki listens to Barton moving around in the flat. After a period of time, Loki hears Barton's steps slow at the entrance of Loki’s room.

“Loki?” he calls, voice muffled by the barrier, and Loki gets up and opens the door, his heart beating rapidly. Standing before him, Barton wears a grey sweater and jeans. His hair is still damp from the bath. Barton takes a hesitant step back. 

“Yes?” Loki curses his weak voice. (Barton hates weakness.)

Barton blinks, swallows. 

“Nothing, I just wanted to see if you’re here,” he mumbles, and then turns away.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Loki asks before Barton can leave, keeping his tone neutral and flat. “Would you like something to eat? Or—”

Barton shakes his head, and heads back down the corridor. “Just ... stay out of my sight. When you can.” He rubs his palms against the sides of his jeans, a nervous gesture he has picked up in the circus, Loki knows. 

Slowly, Loki closes the door and sinks to the ground. 

He cannot be near him. He must not be near him. 

Time passes. After a few hours he hears Barton walking past, then the front door slamming shut. Carefully, Loki opens his door and ventures out. His feet take him to the couch, the exact spot at which Barton's warmth still emanates, and Loki curls up on it.

When the afternoon turns into a colorless dusk, Loki goes to the supermarket (as always he has to first ask for permission, but these days a text to either Dr. Banner or Steve Rogers is enough). He knows that Barton, like all the Avengers (except Thor), lives on a very disciplined diet but has a weakness for rich, heavy food, a weakness that stems from Barton’s deprived childhood at the circus and the years before. He loves horrible foods like spaghetti with meatballs or burgers with chips.

Like a child, Loki thinks fondly as he returns to the tower, laden with grocery bags. By the time it’s half past eight, Loki has prepared a perfect burger with chips, exactly the way he has seen it in Barton’s memories. (He tells himself that if he were to cook for Barton every day, he would make sure to feed him healthy meals, take care of his body, but now and then he’d let Barton indulge, like now.) Loki stays in the living room, waiting for Barton although he knows that Barton will likely send him to his room (but he will get to see him, look at him). Finally he switches on the TV, and allows the colors and sounds to wash over him to calm his restless nerves. 

Around two o’clock in the morning he is woken by the beeping sound of someone pressing the number combination for the door. A moment later the door opens, and Barton stumbles in. 

“Fuck,” Loki hears him cursing. Ah, so he is drunk. 

Barton bumps into a wall, then makes his way to the kitchen. Loki waits. He hears the fridge open, hears Barton glugging down a large carton of orange juice. After a while Barton puts the juice back and paces in the kitchen; a moment later the legs of a bar stool scrape over the tiled floor.

When Loki carefully cranes his neck, he can see Barton through the open doors, sitting at the counter with his back to him and wolfing down his (cold) burger. 

Loki gets up and walks to the kitchen, knocking at the door frame. Barton doesn’t even turn around when he mumbles, “Of course you’re still awake."

“Let me at least warm up the rest of your food,” Loki says and puts the plate of fries in the microwave, which he can work perfectly now. Barton stares at the counter, slightly cross-eyed, but eats hungrily. When the fries are ready, Loki serves them to him. Barton doesn’t say anything, just scarfs them down with the burger.

Loki resists the urge to linger and silently retreats into his room. He undresses and lies on the bed, listening to Barton moving around the apartment: first the bathroom, then into the living room where he pauses. Moments later Loki hears the unmistakeable drone of the TV, a dull noise to which Loki finally falls asleep.

It's still dark outside when Loki is woken by the feeling of being watched. 

Someone is in the room. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s almost half past four. He can make out Barton’s silhouette in the dark. 

“Loki,” he says tonelessly, a slight slur in his voice.

“Agent Barton,” Loki answers quietly. 

Barton pushes himself off the door frame and approaches the bed. 

“Do you think we will survive each other?” Barton asks, then laughs bitterly. 

Survive? Loki rises to protest, to assure Barton of his loyalty, his devotion, but Barton grips his head.

“I didn't ask for this,” he says.

Before Loki can answer, Barton’s hands release Loki’s head and wanders down his neck. Loki can feel Barton’s thumb making small circles on the soft, sensitive skin over his collar bone.

“Every time I look at you, I remember,” Barton says lowly, and Loki can hear the pain in his voice. Then Barton closes the space between them and buries his face in Loki's neck. His lips burn against Loki’s skin. 

“Clint,” Loki whispers.

With a curse Barton releases Loki and leaves the room. The door slams shut behind him, leaving Loki lying alone in the dark. His trembling hand presses onto the place where Clint's lips have— _almost_ —touched him.

After failing to fall back asleep, Loki gets up at five. 

Barton sleeps until nine. Loki can hear him shuffling around in his bedroom, then the sound of his shower. He has Barton's breakfast ready by the time he emerges, but he only comes into the kitchen with a pair of sunglasses shading his eyes to down a jug of orange juice.

He ignores the breakfast and leaves.

(Barton doesn’t come home when night falls, and even then not until ten. When he finally does, he goes into his bedroom and doesn't come out.)

A new week sees Barton developing a different schedule to what Loki is used to: Barton gets up at dawn, goes for a run, and takes a shower at half past seven before leaving for the office. He comes home twelve hours later to change into either casual or workout clothes, before leaving again to return in the latter half of the night.

In the mornings Loki is up before Barton. Mostly he stays in his room and waits until Barton has left for his run before dashing out to switch on the floor heating in the bathroom so Barton has a warm floor when he comes home to shower. Loki prepares breakfast while Barton is in the shower and leaves the tray on the counter, making sure he's in his room when Barton emerges. Barton never tells him not to cook any more. He polishes off his plate within minutes, downs the coffee and leaves. 

Only then does Loki venture out. He uses the gym for a couple of hours, then comes home to brew a mug of green tea and have a banana for his own breakfast. He has begun to restrict calories. Loki is naturally slender, but he remembers better than Barton himself that one of his big loves was a fifteen year old girl to Barton's thirteen. When Loki accessed his memories, he'd found her image stacked away in his thoughts like an old photo, making an appearance every now and then in Barton's dreams. 

If he could look more like her, and less like himself, Barton could see him in a different light, could maybe forget. 

Loki weighs himself, measures his waist every day. He lets his hair grow. In the day he leaves his hair open , but he makes sure to pull it back into a knot before Barton comes. Not that Barton sees him, but just in case. He develops the habit of cooking dinner and leaving a tray out on the counter just before Barton returns. And just as in the mornings, Loki slips quietly into his room as soon as he hears the tell-tale typing on the number pad.

Barton goes automatically to the kitchen now and re-heats his dinner in the microwave. He is getting used to these little comforts, and Loki is glad for it.

He doesn’t come to his room at night again. 

He doesn’t speak of of the touch, the almost-kiss of course. It is Loki’s fault anyway: he has broken Barton’s rule (to never call him Clint), and now he must work for Barton’s forgiveness. He must prove to him, beyond any doubt, that Loki _can_ follow orders, that he is not some insipid, useless creature incapable of adhering to simple rules. 

And Loki works hard. 

He makes sure Barton’s room is immaculate when he returns home, the sheets freshly laundered and ironed, soft and fragrant (scented with Barton’s favorite smells: a bit of lemon verbena and orange. Loki sneaks in a tiny, tiny drop of vanilla, a scent which the Midgardians believe to be erotic, but, above all, Barton has favorable memories of). He dresses himself with more care than ever: black and green are the colors Barton _detests_ because he associates them with Loki’s former self, so he throws out everything he owns in those colors. He remembers S.H.I.E.L.D. has expressed interest in his Asgardian armor, had once wanted to examine them, so Loki packs them into a box and takes it down to their office. 

(The faces of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents when Loki presents them his box of neatly folded clothes are simply priceless.)

With the help of the internet, Loki orders clothes that are more to Barton’s tastes: softer colors, casual styles, denims, cotton, linen ... silk. Barton loves silk on women. And men. If there is one thing Loki knows in and out and by heart it’s Barton’s sexual preferences. They are always the easiest piece of information to lure out of people: things that bring pleasure. 

Barton has a weakness for pretty, smooth-skinned boys in lingerie; quite an obvious sign of Barton’s ambiguous tastes. He likes small waists and curves, he likes long locks and full lips ... and he also definitely likes cock, balls, ass. The people he fell in lust with were either women or men, but the one thing they all had in common was that they were all neither exclusively feminine or entirely masculine. With that in mind Loki has secretly bought some of the things Barton likes, to wear before him at an opportune moment. Of course Barton is still angry and hateful, and rightly so, but perhaps in time he will cease fighting his natural desire for his omega. (And he will. Barton can hold on to grudges, to anger, and it’s in fact one of his main methods of survival but surely even he can’t withstand his omega in heat.)

While Barton refuses his natural state, Loki does little, seemingly inconsequential things that give him a semblance of peace and a sense of achievement, however small. The scent on the pillows, the tiny droplets of perfume he applies, the way he tries to modernize his English in order to sound more like Barton himself, the (subtle) changes in his dressing and looks and moves, every successful change he undergoes, even the small, minor ones, give him a tiny drop of hope.

When performing his physical exercises Loki takes exceptional care to prevent developing muscles on his arms, chest and stomach. He does desire round, firm and luscious buttocks though and designs an entire program dedicated to this issue. He scrutinizes himself daily in the mirror with a very critical eye, identifying flaws that have to be corrected, writing them down first in a black notepad, then in the Starkpad Anthony Stark sends him.

He treats himself with pumices and luxurious peelings, then lathers on oils and lotions until his skin is rose-petal soft (because Barton loves smooth skin). He applies creams and serums onto his face, living day to day in a vague panic that his face may soon show the signs of aging. He shapes his eyebrows, keeps his lashes glossy and long with oil.

He reads on topics he knows Barton has an interest in; not only the obvious ones like archery and guns: Barton has an interest in history, likes to read biographies of historical figures, has an interest in chess. He’s a solid player but not great and he knows that—and he likes gardening (a fact that no one besides Natasha, and now Loki, knows).

He educates himself on humans. He watches constantly movies and tv-shows now because they teach him a lot the books don’t. He works tirelessly on his skills as a cook.

All of this that Loki does helps him not to drown. These days he always feels as if he is walking on a ledge, putting one careful foot forward at a time, never sure when he will lose his balance. He cannot name the demons he is running from in his dreams, but whenever he looks at a new piece of lingerie, whenever he dabs on perfume or another exotic and expensive lotion he feels a little safer.

He doesn’t mention any of these measures to Dr. Banner. If he really wanted to know he could simply look at the recordings. Dr. Banner doesn’t ask him. Once, though, he mentions Loki’s weight loss. Loki, who during this particular conversation is a little distracted, smiles in response, feeling flattered to think that his efforts are paying off only to realize at Dr. Banner alarmed facial expression that it isn’t a compliment.

Loki manages to distract Dr. Banner by making tea and opening a pack of chocolate biscuits that he really bought for Barton but mentions off-hand how often he eats them (a blatant lie) which is why he is surprised he lost weight at all. There! Crisis averted. Dr. Banner takes one of the offered biscuits and doesn’t dwell on the subject any longer.

(Later that night, Loki spends almost four hours in the gym to make up for the two biscuits he had eaten in front of Banner, running uphill on the treadmill until he is so dizzy that he almost falls off the machine when he is finished.)

He is striving for perfection. He needs to be as perfect as he can be, because Barton does not deserve any less; Barton will never truly _see_ him if he doesn’t try.

 

At the end of October Loki goes into heat. 

He wakes up one very early morning, feeling his cock leak pre-cum onto his belly, his cunt swollen, wet and hot. It is still dark. He can feel his heart racing. His skin is slick with sweat. When he presses his legs closed, pushing dripping cunt lips together, he moans. 

He is shaking.

Clint ... he needs to get to Clint, he needs him now, he—

No.

Barton wouldn’t like him to come near him in his condition. Besides, Loki knows that Barton locks his bedroom every night.

Loki breathes in, breathes out. 

Cooper showed him breathing techniques to calm his heart. He needs to call her, she’ll come straight away, will put her cooling, soothing hands onto his forehead, give him an injection, stay with him, talk him through—

No.

He closes his eyes.

No. 

Of course she can’t.

He cannot think of this now. 

He can call Dr. Banner. 

But before Loki calls him, maybe he should try to orgasm a few times, so he can appear more in control. He spreads his legs shakily, pushing his fingers into his body, fingering himself, first pushing the palm of his hand against the vulva, then entering two fingers into his hot, wet cunt.

_Oh, so fucking good._

He needs more, so much more—

Loki squashes the thought.

The sensations are overwhelming. Every inch of his skin wants to be touched, stroked, licked and kissed. He arches into empty space, hopeless and yearning to be invaded. His own ragged breathing fills the room. His stiff nipples are suddenly so sensitive; he can feel the linen sheets sliding over them, and every time the sensation feels so sweet.

He wants, no, _needs_ , to be fucked, used, knotted. He needs to be bred.

Usually two fingers in his cunt and one hand on his cock are enough, but today it’s only torturous. He has three fingers inside him, his thumb massaging the base of his cock, his little finger is stretched over his perineum to caress the rim of his hole. With his other hand he rubs and pinches his nipples.

This is madness.

He is so wet, so ready, he needs it so much, he can’t think clearly. Loki continues fucking himself, aware of how much wetter he gets. The sheets underneath him are soaked. The smell of his omega heat hangs heavy in the air: he is aware he smells ripe, fertile.

And then Barton is standing in his room, the door hanging open behind him.

He is naked. And hard.

Loki wants to stop what he is doing but he cannot. Instead he is whimpering, a bitch in heat, needing his mate to breed.

Barton approaches hesitantly. Loki pants, arches up and spreads his legs, offering his wet cunt, spreading it with glistening fingers. 

Barton switches on the night light beside Loki’s bed, and Loki can see that Barton is sweating, his pupils dilated; he is breathing open-mouthed, inhaling Loki’s scent.

“Please,” Loki begs, “please.”

He pushes up his cunt so that Barton has a full view of it, then strokes his cock. Barton moves as if he is steered by a robot and bends down. One hand he puts over Loki’s, pushing it onto his vulva; with the other he grabs Loki’s neck, pins him onto the bed. He bites the soft skin between collarbone and jaw, takes Loki’s nipple between his teeth and worries it lightly before he suckles it, teasing it with his tongue.

Then with a swift movement he swings one leg on top of Loki, pushes down. Loki can feel Barton’s rock-hard cock pressing against his cunt, and he moves frantically to let it slide in. 

_Ohyesplease_.

The blunt head glides over his wet folds, bumps rhythmically into the spot where his clit would be, the base of his cock, and it feels so heavenly good. Only a bit further and Barton could slide it in but he continues teasing him.

Loki is so wet for him, the walls of his cunt want to grasp his cock, feel the silky-hard slide.

Loki throws his head from one side to the other, moaning. In a flurry of frustration, he reaches up and tries to pull Barton closer to him, but in that moment Barton lets go, sits back on his haunches, and then pushes himself off the bed to stumble on the floor.

“No,” he grits out. “No.”

“Agent Barton,” Loki implores him, but he, who once has been called _Silvertongue_ is at a loss for words. He is desperate. How can Barton be so controlled, how can he refuse, now that he is in the same room with him, so close to him? 

Loki crawls out of his bed, lowers himself to the floor, and kneels naked in front of Barton. Reaching up, he takes Barton’s cock in his hand and licks it.

Barton gasps and closes his eyes in bliss, but his hands pull Loki away, and he steps back. 

“You want this,” Loki whispers, “Please. I need you.” Mimicking an animal in heat, Loki turns around, lifting his ass up in an enticing manner to present his cunt, his hole. Behind him he can hear Barton groan. “Take your bitch,” Loki moans, lifting his ass, pressing his face into the carpet.

Barton sinks to his knees, then grips Loki’s hips, and his hands feel so good.

“If I fuck you now, we’ll bond,” he says in a hoarse voice.

“We are already bonded through the scepter,” Loki cries out in despair, “We are already connected!”

Barton shakes his head, clutches it. 

“No,” he says, and he sounds so angry, so torn, “this is different. If we fuck now, we’re connected as alpha and omega, bonded like ...” Barton trails off. 

_Like lovers._

He can’t even say it.

Barton rises and stumbles out of the room.

Loki curls himself into a ball. 

He has never known this pain in his heart, this feeling as if something is tearing him apart from inside. He has tried so hard, he thinks desperately, he is trying so very hard. Every day, every minute, and it is not enough, and maybe it never will.

A cold voice inside his head laughs at him.

_Did you really think a drop of perfume and meatball spaghetti will make him forget that you brainwashed and raped him?_

The _lustwantdesire_ wrecking his body is too much. His nerves are overloading, his brain short-circuiting. Barton has rejected him. He will not bond with him, will not make him his. In that tiny, still functioning part of Loki’s brain that isn’t flooded with hormones, he wonders how he will go on. Barton distancing himself in the last days and weeks was a natural, logical reaction, but him refusing to mate with his omega even though he was in such close proximity: it should not even be possible, not if Barton is truly his alpha.

Loki crawls to the bottom drawer of the chest beside his bed and pulls out the dildos, then lies on his back again. He doesn’t bother getting up into his bed, does not waste any time with teasing himself. Almost viciously he rams the smaller, slim dildo first into his cunt, to get it properly lubed, then inserts it into his twitching hole, where it presses exactly against the spot that makes him whine and sigh in some semblance of relief.

Then, violently shaking, he takes the other bigger dildo, the one with the knot on its base and pushes it into his cunt. Less rough, but still not gentle, Loki imagines being taken by an angry, vengeful beast and gets wetter for it. He pushes in and out, fucks himself, leaving the knot alone until he feels his orgasm building, his cunt spasming. His unfocussed gaze falls onto the camera in the corner of his bedroom; the light is not on, but he doesn’t think it’s ever off. 

Somehow the shame he feels when thinking of having this audience heightens his pleasure. Before his inner eye he can see the agents watching him debase himself, fucking himself on a dog dildo. 

Just before he comes, he pushes the knot in, and expands it with the little switch attached; the pleasure pain of being filled and knotted is so intense, so good, he nearly blacks out. He closes his eyes, and sees Barton bent over him, fucking into him, holding him.

He comes, gasping and moaning loudly. His untouched cock jumps, spurting over his chest, his cunt releasing a flood of warm juices, clenching around the huge dildo. 

(He is aware that Barton can hear him. As he should. Loki is vindictively pleased by it.)

Once he can pull the toys out, Loki rolls onto his side, curling into a fetal position. He’ll have some reprise before the next wave he thinks. Maybe he can get a bit of sleep. He imagines briefly Clint—no, Barton, Agent Barton—pressing himself onto his back, holding him, the way a lover would.

He imagines them, falling asleep together, hands entwined.

There is something wet on his face. When he wipes his face, Loki realizes that it's his tears.


	17. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting. And reading. And commenting. This chapter again, was made readable by my lovely beta, the great Anzie! 
> 
> I will very likely upload the next chapter without having it beta'ed because Anzie is getting really busy too and I can't keep asking my friends to beta these 4000-5000 words monsters :D
> 
> If you'd like to beta please comment on here because god knows I need one, but otherwise please forgive me if the quality of the fic deteriorates in the next chapters.

Chapter 18: 

 

"No. Fucking. Way,“ is _obviously_ the first thing Clint says, but even as he is speaking, he already knows resistance is futile. He doesn’t even ask inane questions like, "Why me?“ Neither does he demand that someone else babysit "your batshit-crazy little brother."

The moment for comic relief has passed, really.

Fury sits back in his chair. Thor, opposite him, wears his armour and his red cape. He has only arrived a few minutes ago and will return to Asgard the moment this meeting ends. 

Natasha's face is absolutely blank while Bruce looks uncomfortable, hiding behind his lab reports and a note pad. The way Tony looks at him, makes Clint's skin itch. As if he's mentally preparing some mean quips but then decided to keep them all for himself. As if he is sussing out things about Clint, Clint himself doesn't know. Of course, Clint has never been a particular introspective person anyway.

Thor has aged eons in a span of a few weeks. Suddenly Clint can understand how people of the old, dark ages have mistaken Odin and Thor for gods. Right now Thor looks nothing like a human being, but an entirely alien creature, the knowledge and indifference of thousands of years in his eyes.

A few short weeks ago they stood in Tony’s lounge together, sharing a drink. Clint showed him some shows on the TV, and they spoke about the future. Thor was bursting with optimism then, and though he didn't tell him or the others, there were rumours that he was to stay on Earth for a while, that he had refused to take the crown. He mentioned Jane in every second sentence, used every opportunity to speak about her. 

"I was born to be king. There never seemed to be another future for me,“ he told Clint. "Now, I know Jane—and I want a different life. My own life.“

It certainly seems that Loki’s last actions as a free man have drastically limited Thor’s options, closing all windows of opportunity. With Odin and Frigga dead, with Asgard's unrest and Jötunheimr's hostility over Býleistr's potential death, Thor has to take the throne.

Clint feels strangely inconsequential. He recognises the wistful look in Thor’s eyes—he saw it in Loki’s eyes before, a quiet pensiveness, akin to regret. He has learned to interpret it. In Thor’s eyes he is already dead flesh. Clint with his short life already belongs to the dead. In hundred years Clint, Tony, Natasha (and Loki) will be long gone, but Thor will still be alive.

"A word alone with you, if I may,“ says Thor. It’s not a request. It’s an order. 

Clint shrugs. 

Everyone files out at Thor's look. 

Thor rounds the table to sit down beside Clint, laying a large and heavy hand upon the archer's shoulder. With the way it's playing out Clint expects a heartfelt appeal, but Thor merely says, "If you do not accept your responsibilities as Loki’s Alpha, he will die. There is a possibility that in the process you will die as well—or at least suffer greatly. I encourage you to accept the bond, with your best interests in mind.“

Thor is not his joke-y, easy-going and deliberately slow self. Clint thinks that this man may be gone for good.

"Why?“ Clint asks finally. Why him? Who chose him? Did Loki _choose_ him? Was it really only biology?

"I do not know,“ Thor admits. "I do not understand how these bonds are created, only that they must be obeyed.“

Clint rubs the palm of his hand against the sides of his jeans. He looks out at the window to the grey sky.

"If it makes it easier for you,“ Thor adds, "It is not a request. I need you to fulfill this bond. I must leave Midgard in a matter of minutes to return to court. Winter is coming, and Asgard still reels from the loss of its benevolent leaders, Odin and Frigga. I will never be able to compare, but I have no choice—all my choices were taken from me when they died.“ He pauses, following Clint’s gaze at the sky. 

When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible.

"I had this dream—of living my life with the woman who loves me, not because she knows me as king. She once changed me, still changes me and my understanding of the world, of the entire universe with every word she says, with every little thing she does. Now all I have left is the throne of Asgard. It is my duty to preserve lives—my duty to be king.“ 

Clint feels reminded of Thor’s desperation when he was unable to lift the hammer, back in New Mexico. The hopelessness in Thor’s eyes now is a thousand times worse though.

"Why do you still care for Loki’s life, after all of this?“ Clint asks. 

Thor looks shrewdly at him. "I lost my brother a long time ago. The thing that inhabits Loki’s body is not my brother. Yet, I feel an obligation to keep his shell alive. Call it sentimentality, if you will. I will not look at it and I will not speak to it, but it shall live out the little time it has left.“

"And what about me?“ Clint demands. "What about my life, my years?“

"Býleistr and his counsellors assured me that the bond is mutual to a certain extent. Loki is tethered to you, you are also tethered to Loki. You may loathe it, but you need him as much as he needs you.“

"No,“ Clint grits out, suddenly overcome with despair. This can’t be it. This cannot be his life from now on: chained to a half-crazy, homicidal creature. "I won’t let you _do_ this to me.“ 

"You brought it upon yourself,“ Thor says. He stands then, indicating that this conversation is over. "Loki can never set foot on Asgard or Jötunheimr again. I cannot bear to end his life, but you know as well as I do that I cannot set him free. Loki’s will leashed and tied to you is an option indefinitely better than physical chains or incarceration. He has always known ways to break his chains and to escape, but this is a bond even he will be hard-pressed to break.

"Learn to live with your burden, the way I will have to learn to live with mine. In time perhaps we may come to a point where we are able to forget our past dreams and accept the universe as it is.“

Just as Thor is opening the door to leave, Clint says defiantly, "I thought we’re friends.“

It is a stupid thing to say, Clint knows, but he can’t resist.

Thor pauses, then walks out without looking back.

 

The scepter is gone. 

In the aftermath of the fight on the top of Stark Tower, the scepter has somehow vanished. Clint remembers throwing it far from himself once he realized what he'd done, but he does not remember seeing where it fell, so focused was he upon Loki's extreme change in demeanor. He thought he heard it clatter on the ground but isn’t sure. He assumed that some agent - or Thor, or Natasha - had picked it up. 

No. It's gone.

No matter how often they replay the video feeds of both the tower and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicopters, no matter how many times they search the rooftop (later extending the search to the surrounding Manhattan streets), the scepter remains gone. 

After a month Býleistr sends Thor a missive to inform them that Amora, aware of how badly the coup went, had summoned it away. The missive informs them that Býleistr came by this information after interrogating the frost giants who aided Helblindi in his mad grasp for the throne. 

With both Amora and Helblindi dead now, they’ll probably never find it again. Clint is relieved about _that_. It's hard to decide how to feel about this situation, but to Clint Loki being additionally under the scepter’s influence is not a bad thing. This way he has at least control over Loki.

Loki's Omega status didn't't diminish the threat he posed; he was still capable of committing murder. The scepter has taken care of that—Loki will never again be able to hurt anyone. 

(Clint is still wary of Loki; surely Loki will find a way out of this.)

On the other hand, Clint dreads going home.

The night Loki knelt before him, begging Clint to take him—it nearly destroyed Clint. He wishes he'd feel repulsed by the idea, but all he feels is a surge of lust that erodes his will and sickens him in the aftermath of it all. When he takes himself in hand, it’s the image of Loki's humiliation that sets him off. Clint has always known that he likes to dominate, but not to such a brutal extent—it’s as if Loki pulls all his dark and hidden desires out and places them in greater light.

 

On his way back to New York from one of his missions in France, Clint makes a detour to Germany. He avoids Berlin, Munich and Stuttgart, but nevertheless still finds his man in a town called Kassel, living in a nondescript council flat in the Hermanstraße.

The man who calls himself Schneider invites him in.

"A pleasure to see you,“ he says, although he doesn’t smile.

"Guten ... Tag,“ Clint returns.

Schneider smiles, not unkindly, at Clint’s strong American accent. As they make their way to Schneider's small tiled kitchen, his host offers him tea and biscuits on a plate. Clint accepts, sitting while Schneider works the water cooker. 

"It has been only a few months since you last ... placed an order,“ Schneider says. 

Clint shrugs.

"True,“ he admits, but doesn't answer the unspoken question. Instead, he asks, "How have you been?“

Schneider assesses him quietly, but drops the topic and instead tells him of the last few months: visits to Poland for a cousin’s wedding, then a trip to England. Clint grins when Schneider jokes, hums in agreement at all the appropriate moments. After a while, when Schneider's stories run dry, he gets up and gestures for Clint to follow him. They walk through the living room down the carpeted hallway, entering a small and dusty study through a small door that leads into a room that is a cross between an exercise and storage area; the treadmill sits next to the dust-covered desk, open boxes of files scattered about the room.

"I really have to try exercising one of these days,“ Schneider sighs as they pass the treadmill. He presses a small button under the desk.

The book shelf behind the desk is moved back by unseen mechanisms to reveal another entrance—a steel door too modern in comparison to the room itself. Schneider punches in a number code; the door leads them into the lab.

Opening various cabinets, Schneider begins taking out boxes of pills and a few injection kits, piling them onto a counter before typing into a calculator, scanning codes with small portable scanner.

"Enough?“ he asks as he works.

Clint nods, pulling out his credit card. It’s the one account not monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D—obviously this bank charges exorbitant handling fees (disguising questionable transactions is not a cheap service) but at least they’re reliable. And secure. 

Schneider takes the card, processes it via a machine a little flatter and smaller than an Eftpos, but infinitely faster. Clint picks up the purchased pills, syringes and bottles, puts them into an Aldi plastic bag, and then rolls the bag up. He tucks it under his arm. 

"It was good to see you again, Schneider,“ Clint says.

Schneider nods, "Please come by soon again,“ but then adds, "No more than 150mg a day, do you understand?“

"Of course,“ Clint reassures him.

Schneider smiles blandly, then escorts him to the entrance door. They shake hands.

 

Clint takes his first pill in the hotel after a shower; he lies down, just staring at the ceiling. It’s good, these moments when he can feel his nerves calm, when he feels the telltale numbness blanket his feelings like a layer of snow. That first pill after a long abstinence is always the best, the strongest.

Everything is quiet now.

Good.

 

The night Loki’s heat arrives he has to take his first hit, a powerful concentrate of Schneider’s concoction. He pierces the aluminum cap of the bottle and pulls up the clear fluid up through the syringe. The gauge is quite thick for this one. Before this mess with Loki a single hit was enough to take him out, but now he measures out 2.5ml, almost three times of his usual dosage, then injects it into his bloodstream. 

It’s nice seeing the blood swirl up into the syringe while everything slows down. For one moment the crazy rush of the world comes to a halt. 

The first hit literally pulls his legs out from underneath him, and Clint falls to the bathroom floor. It’s been a while; his body needs to adjust. His heart is pumping, and he can feel his body temperature increase briefly while his opioid receptors are flooded with endorphines.

For a very brief yet infinitely sweet moment he is pulled into a black, starless night, where he is floating like a directionless spaceship.

He is awake. His head is clear, but he remains where he is on the cool, clean tiles. The drug takes the edge off of the loathsome desire. The raging want ebbs until it’s merely a pull, a dark murmur.

He feels less like a trapped animal now. 

(Underneath all that hunger it is still there, pulling him under, beckoning, but he won’t allow it.)

As long as there is fight left in him, he will fight this. He will not succumb, he will not be lured into the alpha-omega bond, will not become a slave to his slave. Nothing he knows about it makes him want to accept it. It repulses him, the animalistic aspect of it–the knotting, the breeding.

The dependance. 

No, he must not lie to himself. 

(He laughs quietly, listening to his voice echoing in the bath room, or maybe it’s just the drug.)

Loki’s sexually submissive streak has awakened something ugly in him. The way he offered himself to Clint, the way he loved getting fucked like a whore, the way he eagerly took part in his own debasement ... no, _that_ didn’t repulse him. 

It turned him on, made him feel alive.

This is something Clint is vulnerable for, and he has always known that. Maybe it is the humiliation he craves—when beautiful boys or girls beg, when they suck his cock on their knees and grovel at his feet. Either way it has been especially powerful with Loki. 

Loki’s second wave is stronger. Clint comes to himself, still lying on the bathroom floor at around noon, enveloped in Loki’s heavy, honeysweet scent. His first instinct is to get to Loki, to bury himself in him and rut into him until Loki breaks. 

_Until his bitch is bred._

(The thought makes him sit up in shock. He doesn’t know where it came from, it was just suddenly there, filled his mind for a short moment, and he has to force it out. What the fuck.)

He can smell Loki’s wetness. 

He gets up, crawls to the shower cabin and turns on the hot water. Sitting with his back against the wall, he grips his cock and jerks himself off, trying to fend off images of Loki’s cunt, of his dark nipples and his clenching pucker ... and failing. Miserably. No matter how hard he tries to picture his other lovers, his feverish mind latches onto Loki: Loki on his knees; Loki with his legs spread, displaying his cunt, playing with his cock; Loki’s lips wrapped around cock, and although he does his best to fight it, the image to which he finally comes is of himself fucking Loki, knotting him, tieing him, all while Loki whimpers and cries and pleads.

Clint remains boneless and limp in the shower for the next twenty minutes, disgusted with himself. (And, somehow deep inside him, not really disgusted. Sated, satisfied, pleased.) 

He can’t risk another hit, so he takes half a pill, swallows it with water and waits until he feels the calmness spread in him. He is numbed, but sufficiently alert. Clint dresses, practices a few fighting moves to evaluate his reaction time–it's not his best, but it’ll be enough.

When he finally leaves his room, Loki is sitting on the couch of the living room. 

Clint is so distracted by his rich scent, it takes him a few moments to register Loki is wearing a dress.

A dress.

It’s sleek and soft, made from black silk; it hugs his slim waist, skilfully creates the illusion of an hourglass figure. Clint seats himself opposite Loki. With his hand Loki pushes up the dress to reveal long, pale legs. 

Loki’s eyes are dark, his pupils enormous. He is panting, hands clawing the sofa

He is so beautiful in his suffering. Even now, drugged to the gills, Clint can feel his cock harden again. Loki lifts a bare leg; Clint glimpses his cunt. 

Clint fakes a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. After a while he makes a decision. 

"How badly do you need to get fucked?“ he hears himself asking.

Loki tilts his head in response, licks his lips, spreads his legs. He strokes his thighs with his flat palms. 

Clint forces himself not to look.

_(Oh god, Loki is so wet, what is this smell, it’s so sweet and fuck, he is dripping, his cunt lips are so swollen and ripe, like peaches, he wants to bite into them, to push his tongue into them before he mounts his bitch and—)_

Clint shakes his head.

"No,“ he says. "This," he gestures between them, "won’t happen. We won’t bond. We won’t fuck. I will not fuck you, if I can help it.“ 

Loki glances at Clint's crotch, licks his lips.

Clint palms himself, adjusts the heavy weight of his erection.

"Okay,“ he says, more to himself, than to Loki. "Okay.“ 

He gets up.

"Remember the place I took you to once? The restroom at the gas station?“

Loki looks up at him, uncertainty in his eyes.

"We can both have our fun there,“ Clint says. "It’ll take at least the edge off, right? We both get to fuck.“

Loki only hesitates for a few moments before nodding; Clint smirks at his eagerness. Loki gets up, looking at him expectantly. 

He is wearing fucking high heels, towering over Clint. 

They must be new. When did Loki buy them? Clint imagines Loki trying on shoes, sitting on an ottoman lifting his leg to admire the heel, the arch of his elegant foot. 

"You look like a slut,“ Clint says.

"Do you not like it?“ Loki asks quietly.

And _that_ is the crux.

Loki knows exactly what Clint likes; he reminds Clint of that every day in little things like his favorite dishes, colors, music, fabrics and even cocktails. Loki tries to be sly about it, but even the fashion-challenged Clint has noticed that Loki only wears denims and tops in blue now, and washes his hair with perfumed shampoo–and even _curls his lashes_. The truly disturbing part is how Clint likes it, despite knowing that Loki is manipulating him (again)—how easily he gets used to having breakfast ready for him in the morning, dinner waiting for him at night, the lemony scent lingering in the air of his bedroom.

Clint doesn’t bother replying as he turns around and walks out of the apartment. Loki follows.

At least Clint doesn’t need to sneak him out of the building anymore.

The corridor to the lift is empty, but the lobby is full of people who part like Moses’ sea when they see Loki in his dress and his high heels; they're dumbfounded, scandalized. At least no one knows it’s Loki (which in Clint’s mind, is still crazy and fucked up on a whole other level, what with Odin’s ability to alter reality). They just think it’s one of Clint’s new ... friends. Companions.

Someone snaps a picture with his phone. The entire group of uniformed receptionists stare at Loki. Loki just walks towards the exit in his high heels like he doesn’t even notice the commotion he causes. People take him in, confused by everything about him.

Clint wonders if they also register his heat, if they feel drawn to him on a subconscious level. Many of the looks Loki gets are admiring.

Another girl surreptitiously takes a picture of Loki; Loki catches her but doesn’t get angry. Instead he pulls up his shoulder and places his hand on his hip, then turns around, like a model in one of these glossy, heavy magazines he reads secretly.

While everyone is busy gawking at Loki, Clint asks one of the receptionists to call him a car. His voice is so rough, he has to repeat his request. 

"Right away, sir,“ says the young girl, her eyes large. She clicks around on her screen, speaks into her earpiece. Clint hears her saying, 'Stark Tower' as he leans against the wide, polished counter; he looks at Loki, who stands ramrod straight further away in front of the huge glass panels.

"They’re at the main entrance,“ the girl tells him a little while later, sounding flustered. Clint thanks her, ready to leave the counter, but she leans forward, her cheeks flushing with her own bravado.

"And Mr. Barton,“ she says, covering up her tiny micro, "thank you. For saving the world. Ah, and sorry for bothering you. I’m sorry to be one of these fans ... but I’m just so grateful to be alive.“ 

He gets that more often these days, strangers thanking him for 'saving the world', and he hasn’t gotten any more used to it than he was when they first started, but at least he has learned to accept the gratitude. It also restores a bit of his faith in humanity. He’s not one of them, but there _are_ good people in the world.

"What's your name?“ he asks the girl. 

"Candice,“ she says. She looks terribly young.

"Thank you, Candice. Pleasure to meet you,“ he reaches out, takes her hand and shakes it. She smiles, and he returns it easily. When Candice sits down again, he turns to find Loki staring at them with a strange expression on his abruptly ashen face; his teeth are slightly bared. 

He steps towards Candice.

Clint gets in his way and grabs his wrist. The look in Loki’s eyes is feral. He makes an odd sound in his throat, a strange catlike growl. Clint can feel how tense Loki’s body is. 

"What the fuck,“ Clint says, "what the hell's wrong with you?“

Loki just hisses tonelessly, still staring at the girl. 

When he starts moving towards her, Clint is fast enough to pull him back.

"Stop it.“

Fuck. He just gave Loki a direct order, his first real _command_. He hasn't really planned on avoiding issuing orders, but he hasn't planned on dealing them out like a master to his slave either. (He hadn't really thought this whole thing through when he pressed the scepter onto Loki's chest. It had been a momentary, crazy impulse.)

Loki’s arms go limp, and the tension leaves his body, but he still strains weakly against Clint's hold.

"Down,“ Clint says sharply, cringing inwardly as he realizes he is treating Loki like an errant dog.

Loki goes still.

When he next looks at the girl, his expression is sad. “I am sorry,“ he just says. 

"I ... I order you to not attack people,“ Clint says, hoping he does that right. Loki nods, deflated. "Do you understand?“ Clint’s voice is sharp now, brooking no argument as though there'll be one. 

"I am sorry,“ Loki says, his voice barely audible but then he clears his voice and repeats, "I am sorry. I’ll be good.“

Clint steps back, releasing Loki. 

Only a few executives in expensive suits, who are standing in close proximity to them, have noticed Loki’s behavior, but after a short moment they turn their eyes away again, focusing on their discussion in which fancy restaurant to have dinner.

The girl at the reception is fiddling with her blue-tooth set, staring at the computer screen in front of her. Clint can't say if she noticed any of this, but even if she did, her job is to act professional, which is what she does.

They leave the lobby together. The car is in front of them, and Clint opens the door and pushes Loki inside.

The dark blue BMW’s engine purrs like a content cat as they drive through the streets of Manhattan. The driver asks politely if they wish to listen to music, then turns on some mellow jazz score at Clint's nod before discreetly pulling up the tinted glass barrier between them.

Clint grabs the door handle when the full force of Loki’s scent hits him. He is hard again. Loki leans into the corner, spreading his legs and pulling the smooth silk up so Clint has a good view of his cunt with its slightly parted lips; Loki is so flushed and swollen and wet, reminding him of a gorgeous, ripe fruit. He wants to feast on it, feel the juices flow down his chin.

"Stop seducing me,“ says Clint. "That's an order.“

The second direct order is already much easier. He can get used to this: the thought is exhilarating as it is sickening. He is astonished though how much effort it causes him to bring the words themselves over his lips, as if his Alpha nature does not want Loki to stop.

It works, though. Slowly, Loki pulls himself upright, and they are silent for the rest of the drive. 

There are cars in the parking lot when they arrive; Clint gives the driver a generous tip and tells him to wait in the diner. The driver thanks him and walks towards the lit place without looking back.

Clint stares after the elegant silhouette of the driver, who no doubt reports to S.H.I.E.L.D.. The organization's interest has lessened now Loki isn’t truly theirs any longer, but they still continue to watch. 

It doesn’t faze him.

Loki gets out of the car. A truck leaving the parking lot shines its headlights onto Loki, and Clint stares, fascinated. In the stark light Loki looks like a work of art. His skin is so white, the slender arms seem to be sculpted out of marble. The black of his hair has a slight blueish tint. 

Clint jerks his head towards the restroom, and they go. Behind him, he hears a few car doors open and slam shut.

When he looks back, Clint sees five guys following them in a leisurely pace. 

It’s his favorite place to have sex, the restroom. Everything else is too much work: speaking to people, getting close to them, interacting. Getting inside their heads, let them get inside his head. All of that hurts. Here in the restroom, there is only sex. This filthy little place in the middle of nowhere is his haven. Even when people fuck where there are no walls to hide them from each other, it is _still_ anonymous fucking. There is a liberty in that concept he finds hard to explain, but he only knows he needs it that way. Fucking is a great painkiller, and maybe that’s what he needs—to fuck pain away, to be able to move and to think. 

There are restrooms with stricter policies, but the four cubicles in the back are almost designated cruising spots. Anyone who just wants to pee or take a dump stays in the better lit front, where the doors can be locked and there are no holes in the partitions. From time to time (but very, _very_ rarely) the holes are closed off and the graffiti painted over. Even so, after a few days, someone makes another hole into the partition, unscrews the light-bulb in the back, and it’s back to business as usual. 

The light in the cubicle itself is flickering and dim. Ongoings here are debauched and amoral but since they’re free of violence or crime, the police is lenient and raids are kept to a minimum, one of the reasons Clint frequents this place. Plus, the last stall, which is locked and doesn’t actually have a toilet inside, only cleaning equipment has also a small window that leads into the thicket behind the restroom—in the unlikely instance of a raid there is still the possibility to escape.

Loki stands in the middle of the room. Some of the guys are really only here to take a piss and file out in a hurry, throwing disgusted looks at them. 

"Fucking gays,“ someone murmurs at Loki. Loki just looks at the guy, mild astonishment on his face, as if in his world there is no such thing like homophobia. Clint assumed that there is gender binary in Asgard, and therefore, logically homophobia. Then again, just because it’s like this on earth it doesn’t have to follow that gender binary is automatically tied to homophobia on other planets. 

Or maybe, Loki still needs to get used to not being treated as royalty.

Clint pulls Loki into a cubicle and unceremoniously sits him down onto the white toilet set. 

"So this is what you do,“ he tells him in a low voice, turning Loki's head towards the hole in the wall. "When someone comes into the next stall, you can have a look at his cock. If you want to suck him off, just slide your finger through.“

Loki nods like an apt pupil, his cheeks flushed.

"You can tap your foot in a certain rhythm if you like, or knock, or whatever,“ Clint explains. "It’s up to you. You’re smart enough to suss it out.“

For a while they look at each other, then Clint turns on his heels and steps out of the stall. He doesn’t bother closing it, instead walking into the opposite stall, which doesn’t even _have_ a door, to lean against the door frame and watch. 

He doesn't have to wait long. A guy enters the stall beside Loki’s. Clint can only see his back for a moment, but if his cock matches his height and wide shoulders, Loki is in luck. Loki looks at him, almost as if asking for permission. Clint nods. Slowly, Loki sticks his fingers through the hole, then withdraws the hand. Almost immediately, a large veiny cock appears. Loki licks his lips, and without taking his eyes off Clint, he begins sucking it. 

He licks it first, circles the glans with his tongue before he finally takes it between his lips, moaning hungrily. The hole is just big enough to fit the balls through as well, and Loki licks them too, like a kitten licking food of a finger. He grips the fat base of the cock and continues licking and nuzzling, teasing the poor guy on the other side. 

Clint pulls down his zip and takes out his own cock to stroke. Loki begins to suck in earnest, bobbing his head up and down, and the guy in the neighbouring stall groans.

Loki spreads his legs and the black silk glides up to reveal his wet cunt, so juicy and so ripe. Clint feels his own weakness wash over him. Were he not high as a kite, he wouldn’t be able to resist neither the pink, plump lips nor the smaller, darker ones peeking out. The drug thankfully disconnects him from his urges—a side-effect Schneider isn’t aware of, but an invaluable one nonetheless.

Loki slides the cock down his throat, and the poor guy lets out a muffled scream. Briefly Loki closes his eyes, then begins to stroke the soft, wet skin between his cock and his cunt, press down rhythmically. 

A loud groan emanates from the other stall, and then Loki is pulling back slightly, swallowing. Even from here, Clint can see the balls pumping, the shaft twitching. Cum trickles down Loki’s chin as the softening cock slides out. Loki doubles the speed of his finger fucking, then adds another finger. Lifting his eyes to Clint, he pulls his fingers out and licks them, his tongue obscenely swirling around the digits. Clint clenches his teeth.

"I need to be fucked, _please_ “ Loki says in a low, pleading voice. Clint steps into his stall, lifting the silk with trembling fingers. From above Loki’s pretty, pink cock looks like the center of a lily, a beautiful O’Keefian composition.

"You do, don’t you?“ Clint says. He wants to touch him so badly, feel the hot shaft, the head, sticky with pre-cum; the wet, open snatch. Loki’s scent is deliciously heavy.

He pulls Loki up, drags him out of the stall and walks him to the back of the restroom. Loki's heels click on the tiles; Clint pushes him against the wall and pulls the skirt up to expose his wet, trembling thighs; the round buttocks—they look rounder and fuller than he remembers them, so beautiful, so inviting—his hole; his cunt. 

Loki braces himself against the wall. When Clint turns around, he can see a few guys approaching, all of them transfixed by Loki. It’s something that Clint files away for another time to examine: nearly everyone here is willing to fuck Loki, all these men who initially came here to fuck or suck off other men now queue willingly for Loki’s sopping wet cunt without even commenting on the fact he has a cunt _and_ a cock.

As Clint steps away, clearly indicating that he won’t be fucking Loki, the first one of them—a handsome, long-haired blond guy with a red shirt—reaches impatiently for Loki.

"Need some cock, baby?“ he whispers in a heavy drawl. He unzips his black denims, pulls out his cock.

"Nnngh,“ Loki moans, spreading his legs further apart, and bending deeper, so his ass is even more inviting. The guy lines up behind him, then pushes his fat, rock hard cock into Loki’s cunt; Loki arches like a cat, crying out in relief. 

Yet, somehow, he still manages to twist around to look at Clint, to maintain eye contact with him; Clint can’t look away. He can’t tear himself from the sight of Loki’s parted lips, his heavily lidded eyes and the mixture of expressions in them—pleading and begging for his cock, but also taunting as if Loki is secretly mocking him. There is a streak of disobedience in Loki that confuses Clint. Isn’t an omega not supposed to be more submissive? Why is Loki, who has taken to wash his dirty laundry, cook for him and wait on him like a fucking butler suddenly reverting to his old self? 

The familiar, niggling notion that the old, coldly manipulating Loki is still in there, awakens again. Clint struggles to take a step back. It feels like wading in a swamp, with his muscles, his entire being screaming to move towards his omega, to take his bitch.

The man behind the blond guy doesn’t want to wait any longer; he walks up to Loki and pulls his cock out. Loki bends down without prompting, and the man pushes it into Loki’s mouth. 

Clint _thinks_ he feels lust—mainly animalistic arousal, a desire to fuck, raw and burning—but he also feels anger and fury bubbling underneath. The urge to reach out and twist the blond guy’s head off his shoulders is nearly irresistible.

 _It was his idea._ He needs to stay afloat. This is a way to keep the balance—maybe not forever, maybe not even for a long time, but at least for now it’s a provisorium that can work. 

Clint likes how they destroy Loki, mar this perfect beauty with their greedy lust and rough handling. This is what he deserves, what he likes. Or so Clint wants to believe. 

A young guy, barely twenty, pushes past the man fucking Loki. "Hey,“ he says. "I want to fuck his ass.“

Loki moans. 

"Oh yes, please,“ he whines. 

The blond guy simply tosses his hair back, out of his sweaty face, then grabs Loki and flips him around, leaning back against against the tiled wall; he's strong enough to lift and hold Loki up. Loki straddles his waist, sinks on his cock. The young one stands close behind Loki and, holding him up with one arm, begins to finger Loki’s hole with two fingers. 

Apparently Loki clenches, because the younger man inhales, then lets out a breathless laugh.

"Ah, you really want it, slut,“ he says. 

"Yes. _Yes_.“ 

Loki writhes between the two men. "Just put it in. Ram it in. _Hurt_ me.“ After a moment of hesitation the guy behind him opens a sachet and squeezes lube onto Loki’s hole, then slides his cock into it. 

Loki’s head falls back, exposing a long white throat. Black strands of hair stick to the glistening skin. He begins to move frantically, taking in both cocks at once, and the two men fucking him cry out.

"Fucking tight,“ the young guy manages to groan.

Loki lets out a long, throaty moan. 

"Faster,“ he begs, and they oblige.

"Like that, slut?“ the man in front of him asks, while he vigorously fucks up into Loki, whose arms and long legs are wrapped tightly around him.

Clint can tell whenever Loki comes. Sometimes his slim, beautiful cock just jumps and spills, but at the end he seems to clench so hard he milks the cocks inside him to the point that the men fucking him literally lose their minds.

Suddenly there's a trucker guy behind Loki. He seems to come out of nowhere, dressed in a dirty denim jacket and camouflage pants, slightly staggering, and the other guys standing around Loki, like Clint, react startled as well. He looks completely wasted. 

Before he unzips, he slaps Loki in the face, then chokes him. 

"What the fuck, man?" the young guys says.

The blond guy is confused. "Do you ... do you want him to do that?“ he asks Loki. Loki shakes his head, gasping for breath. In a smooth movement the blond guy has a small, sharp knife at the trucker’s throat. The young guy who is still firmly lodged in Loki’s ass, wrestles the trucker’s hand away from Loki’s throat.

"Fuck off,“ he hisses. When the trucker protests, one of the men who's fucked Loki previously comes up from behind, twists the trucker’s arm behind his back and walks him out of the restroom with a boot on his ass.

None of the other men comment or interfere until, when the trucker tries to enter again, a guy who is standing close to the entrance punches him out.

Clint tilts his head curiously at the coordinated action. He could have sworn these men don’t know each other, yet they act in almost perfect sync. Their behavior reminds him of something—maybe a swarm of drones? He can’t think clearly now, what with Loki’s goddamn scent everywhere, making him drunk and dizzy and Schneider’s drug coursing through his body. Maybe he reads to much into this anyway.

He leans at the door frame of a cubicle, putting more distance between himself and the action. One of the men has pulled down Loki’s dress, exposing his shoulder and chest and playing with his stiff nipples but Loki makes a whiny sound and wriggles around. 

"Enough for tonight?“ a man who is buried inside Loki asks.

Loki nods weakly.

"Tired,“ he mumbles.

"Alright then.“ And the guy pulls out without any more questions.

Before Loki can sag to the ground, someone catches him. One of the men takes off his jacket, and wraps it around Loki before picking him up. His friend asks Clint, "Where's your car?“ 

Clint tells him. 

"Okay, he’s ready to go home,“ the first man says cheerfully, and starts walking with a friend of his by his side. Clint hastily pulls up his zip, and follows them. Just in time he unlocks the car so that one of the men can open the door. The one carrying the exhausted Loki asks him, "Do you want to lie down on the back seat?“ 

Loki nods weakly.

The man lowers him carefully into the back seat, pulls the coat tighter around him and even fastens the seat belt.

"That was fun. Come back soon,“ he says, before closing the door. When Clint reaches the car, the man pats him on the shoulder. Clint shrugs the touch off, and the man gives him a friendly nod. The feeling of something decidedly weird going on is returning with full force. It’s just the way these guys are acting. 

Fuck it. He needs a drink.

"Drive carefully,“ the guy says, then walks back to the restroom with his buddy.

Loki is still out of it when Clint gets into the cold car. He turns on the heater, then calls the driver. 

Some of the men are standing in the dim light in front of the rest room, looking at the car. 

_What the fuck? Don’t you have something better to do? Like suck each others cocks, fuck yourself stupid, sniff some poppers?_

"What did you do to them?“ he asks before he can even stop himself.

"What?“ Loki turns to look at him, his eyes startlingly blue even in the darkness of the car. 

Clint flinches.

"Don’t look at me,“ he hisses. "This is an order.“

Loki immediately averts his eyes.

"I didn’t do anything,“ he says. 

"They were all _fawning_ over you,“ Clint says. "I know this place. They’re never like that. Did you fuck with their heads?“

"They were only being nice,“ Loki says. He is getting frantic.

Clint looks out the window again. 

"I swear, I didn’t do anything,“ Loki says again, in a pleading, whiny tone. Before Clint can say anything, the driver opens the door and slides into his seat. Clint hears the click of the fastened seatbelt, and then the driver is looking at them. "Where to, gentlemen?“ he asks. 

"Stark Tower,“ Clint says.

The driver nods, glancing at Loki.

"Are you alright there? Are you cold?“ he asks in a concerned tone, "Do you need me to turn the heater up?“

"Shut up and drive,“ Clint says through clenched teeth.


	18. Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait!
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'ed so if it's horrible go on, tell me to upload beta'ed stuff next time :)
> 
> PS: Also, I'll be going back and re-edit this chapter as I keep finding mistakes upon mistakes! SORRY!

One can get used to everything. If anyone, than Loki should know that, but he still finds himself faintly surprised at how _easily_ things click into place. Everything becomes part of a mindless and somehow comforting routine.

Maybe over the time every routine becomes comforting.

Loki gets used to Barton having to leave abruptly for missions. It was not easy in the beginning. Every time Barton left, it felt so sudden, it tore Loki’s heart out and he felt he was drowning and suffocating at the same time. Barton's absence left him bereft and lost and he spend countless hours, sitting in front of the enormous windows, pressed against the glass, searching the skies.

Now he distracts himself with doing things for Barton, like cleaning his bedroom, exercising his weak, human body and trying to get it into a shape Barton might find appealing, reading books and watching movies he knows Barton likes—Loki wants to be ready, just in case Barton ever wants to converse with him. 

He has gotten used to the appearance of black suited S.H.I.E.L.D agents wearing bland faces and mirrored sunglasses wether it’s seven o’clock in the morning or if it's in the middle of the night. (He has learned to help Barton pack his stuff in less than five minutes.)

He has learned to predict his heats, to decipher the small changes in his body and his mood to pinpoint at which stage he is. A certain regularity has crept in, and he has gotten used to to bleed every month like a woman. 

He has gotten used to Jarvis, who makes his presence mostly only known when Barton is here, and almost never addresses Loki, but nonetheless fulfills most of his orders, much like a silent ghost.

He thinks he has a better hold over his emotions. Despair is an ugly thing. Nobody likes despair. 

(He has gotten used to missing things he thought he’d never miss.)

He has picked up new habits and hobbies—sure, most of them he has taken from Barton’s memory but still.

Oh, redecorating. Loki uses his time to hunt down new furniture and pictures. Barton has given him permission to do so, and everyone, including and especially Dr. Banner seems to be sort of glad about his new hobby.

Loki likes to devote a great deal of time to the task of making this place more comfortable for Barton. 

He paints the hallway himself, while being watched by a sleepy S.H.I.E.L.D agent whom he feeds a ginger ale and a ham and mustard sandwich. In the end the agent starts helping him, and tells him the new color looks „nice“.

Barton, being Barton of course, hardly ever notices things like the subtly altered wall color, the new drapes and paintings but he grumbles about the new sofa. (The new location makes him cranky, but he likes the new sofa itself, since the old one was a hideous, uncomfortable monster). 

Barton can’t hide his delight though when he discovers that Loki has bought a bigger LCD screen and a surround sound system. Loki is delirious with joy over Barton sitting in front of the TV. 

Barton approves of his choices!

Barton has never time to care about these things anyway. He never knows how long he is in NY. He may be here for weeks, waiting for his new assignment, assisting with training new recruits and agents, he may be gone within an hour, because some other corner of the world has begun burning. Loki will never get entirely used to it, but he thinks he has developed coping mechanisms. 

Dr. Banner is very nice to him. He always comes by, chats with him, listens politely to everything Loki wants to talk about, even when Loki is enraged about a new plot development on one of his favorite shows. Come to think of it, Dr. Banner shows an unusual interest in Loki’s opinions about TV shows, which is somehow nice, although Loki can’t shake the feeling that he is being observed or evaluated. Still, Dr. Banner (Bruce!) is so kind to him Loki hardly ever notices the recording devices.

Loki is not the only one who gets used to things.

It looks like as if Barton gets even more used to Loki running the household. He is so distracted by his work for S.H.I.E.L.D and his missions anyway, he doesn’t have much time to notice just _how_ Loki is managing. He never liked things like cooking and cleaning, and it is easy to persuade Barton to accept Loki doing it, although Barton seems to feel uncomfortable about it, at least in the first weeks, until Loki learns to do a lot of what he does in Barton’s absence. If it is out of Barton’s sight, he doesn’t mind.

Once a week, usually on Mondays, a team of cleaning people cleans the apartment. Loki often pretends that they were the ones who ironed the sheets or changed the curtains or cleaned up Barton's study. Barton pretends to believe him and they both can pretend that nothing is out of the order and Loki is not Barton's indentured slave. Less awkward for both.

Loki is never, _ever_ allowed to look into the metal closet in the bath room. It is safely locked and even if Loki wanted he would not be able to open it. He is curious about it sometimes, but of course Barton has some secrets he doesn’t want anyone to know. (And Loki has his own secret too, his own little locked box underneath the bed, which so far no one has shown curiosity about, although the faceless people monitoring the CCTV feeds must know it exists.)

Apart from that, during the times Barton does stay in this apartment, he gets used to Loki serving him dinner the minute he gets home. Barton has even gotten used to Loki being awake, when Barton can’t sleep. Often enough Loki quickly fixes him a warm beverage and a sandwich in the middle of the night, then slinks off into his own room again, listening to the clanking of cutlery or the sound of a glass set onto the counter top. 

Life goes on, as they say. Loki is not sure if he is glad about it. He is relieved about the decrease of open hostility on Barton's part, but another part is panicking about the way Barton manages to avoid him. Sometimes it feels this enormous apartment is really Loki's and Barton is only a temporary visitor.

Loki thinks Barton has become attuned to Loki's heats. He can't be sure as they don't talk about it, but he notices that Barton often comes home for these few days. One day, on the cusp of his heat, Barton tells him over breakfast that he intends for them to „go out tonight“ which has become a synonym for „fucking our brains out with random strangers“—which is why Loki is standing later in front of the mirror in his room, tying himself into a corset while trying to watch one of the TV shows he has taken such a liking to. (It’s the one set in the Victorian era.) He has left the door open, as he is preparing dinner for Barton at the same time and a beautiful, juicy lamb roast is cooking in the oven.

Thankfully it’s still another day until his heat, although Loki has learned to recognize the impending signs—the slight swelling of his bits, the sensitivity in his nipples, the slow, heavy warmth in his lower belly and groins, the faint wet sensation between his legs, _the dreams_.

Lacing himself into the corset is a strangely erotic experience, although it faintly reminds him of donning the armor before accompanying Thor to battle. 

Well, this is a battle too, sort of, although so far, he is losing.

 _Because you stopped fighting_ a voice in his mind says. Before he can explore the thought and where it comes from, he notices a small movement in the corner of his eye and turns around.

Barton is leaning against the door frame, watching him. Then he pushes himself off and saunters over to him. The look in his eyes seems murderous, but also desperate at the same time. Of course Loki is aware of Barton hating him for making him want him, but it still pains. Each of these looks is like a tiny cut, and each time Loki feels he is bleeding. Wounds are supposed to heal with time but maybe not this one.

Suffering is never appealing, Loki remains himself, so he dons a little smirk, while averting his eyes, batting his eyelashes.

When Barton’s hands are on him, Loki nearly gasps. 

_He gets wet instantly._

Then Barton has the satin ribbons of the corset in his hands, the ends wrapped around his knuckles and tugs firmly. Loki has to brace himself against the mirror as Barton skilfully laces him into the corset.

„Tighter, please,“ Loki says, feeling vaguely guilty of making demands, but Barton doesn’t object, just tugs harder. Loki lets out another gasp as the air is pressed out of his lungs. When he is finished he looks up, stares at Loki in the mirror, his lips slightly parted, his nostrils flared.

Suddenly he lunges forward, covers Loki’s body, and Loki can feel Barton’s heavy, straining erection against the curve of his ass, and his mouth on his neck, inhaling and growling.

Loki forces himself to keep absolutely still, not to move an inch. He knows if he moves too much into this touch, Barton will come to his senses immediately and shove him away, as he usually does.

He is getting used to these moments now, too.

Surprisingly Barton only gently slides his hands down his flanks, before stepping back.

„Be ready in half an hour,“ he says in a rough, thick voice.

Loki closes his eyes.

 

Barton takes him to a club in a place called Soho. It’s a risk because the club has a strict No Ladies policy but the bouncers barely look at Loki, just wave both through. 

The music is a thick, overwhelming tapestry of sound, the hypnotic rhythm of the percussion oddly reminiscent of the battle drums in Asgard. Loki feels the sound roll through him, wave after wave. 

The men around him are moving their hips, undulating while throwing Loki curious glances as Barton is pulling him through the crowd. Loki notices that they follow like curious animals, a pack of wolves, eyes dark with lust.

Barton pretends not to notice, but his back is tense. They arrive in front of a black door, which is guarded by two bouncers. They step wordlessly aside and Barton pushes the door open. 

The music inside is different, not as loud. The smell of sex, sweat and semen, assaults his senses. Barton turns around and mouths "dark room". The room is lit by black light only, which makes Barton's teeth look stark white. Loki quite likes the light. Everyone around him looks inhuman now with blueish skin and strangely colored eyes.

The moment of truth arrives when Loki shimmies out of his black leggings, presenting proudly his slim, smooth cock, but also his wet cunt. 

It is not an insignificant moment.

As Loki understands, the men who fucked him in the rest room at the truck stop are mostly married to women, have children and in their daily lives hide their desire to sleep with men. They wait until their wives are out with their girlfriends or asleep, then sneak away to have their cocks sucked by strangers. Loki likes to think they’re less prone to being squeamish about the sight of female genitalia. Many of them don’t even identify as gay (at least this is what Barton tries to explain to him Loki assumes). They identify as men who fuck men. And somehow it’s different than being gay or homosexual or whatever the Midgardians call it. There is a line, and Loki doesn't understand the line but he knows it exists.

Loki can’t pretend, not even with Barton’s stolen memories of a lifetime on Midgard, to understand thoroughly the intricacies of human sexuality and the attitudes around it. He is slow to grasp the connection between religion, societal pressure, politics and homophobia. Of course sex on Asgard is complicated too, and of course, there are also taboos in Asgardian society, but they are differently balanced and weighted as the entire society has a complete different foundation.

(It doesn't help that Barton is so different from his peers. He is not afraid. Loki has seen in his memories that he has always flaunted his lovers openly, men and women, but it’s not due to some profound insight or moral attitude. It’s more ... laziness. Disregard perhaps. Barton is not afraid of social repercussions or isolation. 

He is afraid of connections. It doesn’t scare him to be seen with a male lover, a fact his straight, hetero-normative colleagues at S.H.I.E.L.D took some time to get used to, but Barton’s far bigger fears are people who come to depend on him, who begin to care for him. Like many who have gone through a childhood of abuse and neglect he does not like to be lonely yet does not know any other way to be.)

The men in this club are different than the men in the rest room. There is nothing secretive about them. They are exclusively interested in men and live, what Barton calls „the gay lifestyle“. They are also, according to Barton, more prone to leaving if they see something they don’t like and he hints at the possibility of them not being aroused by the sight of Loki’s female genitalia.

Loki moves around and gives everyone a good show. He licks his lips, caresses his folds, pulls them apart with long fingers. He coats them with his cunt juice and slicks his cock up with it, moaning but also smiling, daring anyone to leave. He can see the gaze of the men flicker down, between his legs and they seem to be unsure for a moment, confused. 

Yet, no one objects. Not a single man leaves the darkroom. Loki doesn’t like how Barton observes the scene, assessing everyone, the wheels in his brain turning. He likely thinks Loki is manipulating or bewitching them, but the truth is, Loki has no idea what is happening. He only notices what Barton notices as well: that the men he encounters are _friendly_ towards him, protective and caring. (He likes that. He wishes, Barton would be more like that, but of course Loki cannot ever say that.)

It begins with one of the men taking the initiative. Usually it’s one of the older men, but this time it’s a very young, almost boyish looking, scrawny guy with glasses and a ridiculous tye-died shirt. As if he can see Loki’s thoughts about the shirt he takes it off and reveals a pretty, brown body with dark, purplish nipples and sharp hip bones. He’s thin, but thick-boned, and has no difficulty in lifting Loki up. 

„You’re dripping wet,“ he says in an accent Loki can’t locate. His fingers play with Loki’s folds increasing the amount of juice. He slips his fingers inside and presses a spot and Loki’s mind whites out in pleasure.

„Mmmh,“ Loki moans.

Barton is standing behind him. He takes the boy’s cock, and begins to stroke it.

The boy moans, pulling Loki closer to himself, mouthing and biting at his neck.

Loki can feel the movement of Barton’s hand underneath him, the knuckles grazing his cunt, and every time he feels the slight touch he pushes down, wanting to feel more of it. Barton teases him with sliding the thick glans between Loki’s cunt lips, making him even wetter, pushing slightly into him but moving away before Loki can grasp and clench around it as he wants to.

„Please,“ Loki begs.

The boy too, has finally enough of the teasing and shifting Loki’s weight, wriggles out of Barton’s touch and slowly slides into Loki. 

They both groan with relief. 

„Fuck,“ the boy says. He closes his eyes in bliss, worrying his lips. When he opens his eyes again, Loki is startled to see they’re yellow like honey. He wraps his legs tighter around him, feeling that his weight is starting to affect the boy. Thankfully another man takes Barton’s place, who has moved further away, to hold him up as well, while fingering his ass.

The calloused pad of his thumb circles his hole, and together with the boy’s amazing thrusts, this feels so heavenly, so perfect.

„Hungry for cock, hm?“ the man says behind him. His voice is deep and rumbling, and ghosts like a caress over the skin of his neck.

The finger enters him, testing him out, and Loki cries out in pleasure, sobbing and pleading for more. 

He is aware that the sounds he makes are wholly undignified, wordless stammering. The corset restricts his breathing, and he finds he is dizzy and lightheaded, on the verge of passing out but it makes everything feel even more intense.

„Oh fuck,“ the boy shouts out, as Loki clenches around him, „ohgodohfuckohfuck.“

He thrusts in even deeper. The man behind Loki finally has lubed his cock and pushes in. Loki begins to spasm. He feels so full, so good. 

The boy looks at him again, thick black lashes framing his unsettling eyes again.

„Indra,“ he whispers, as if Loki has asked him for his name, „I'm Indra.“

„Hey! Shut up,“ Barton says sharply.

Startled Loki looks at Barton. He has almost forgotten about him, being cared for by these magnificent men. 

Barton looks grim. His teeth are bared and his jaw muscles are clenched. His entire body seems to be tense, ready to pounce. 

„Sorry,“ Indra mumbles, his eyes downcast. Even his thrusts become a bit more shallow and tamer a if his body wants to apologize for the liberty he took, for daring to make himself a person.

Loki doesn’t know why he does it, but he lets go of the boy’s—Indra’s—shoulder and reaches out for Barton’s hand.

„It’s not bonding, if you just hold my hand, please,“ he says softly, begging him with eyes. Barton must not be angry. He feels the irresistible need to soothe him.

Barton, although he doesn’t look exactly lucid, takes the offered hand while he takes up stroking himself again, relaxing against the wall. 

Barton’s and Loki’s fingers entwine and suddenly both Indra and the guy behind Loki have found that perfect rhythm, that perfect pattern, of pushing in, thrusting, sliding over Loki’s sweet spots and pulling out, and while Indra lifts Loki a bit higher so he can lick Loki’s exposed stiff and swollen nipples, the man behind him, reaches around and wraps his slicked, warm hand around Loki cock, and in that moment Loki can’t prevent it any longer: he comes, shaking and trembling, still aware of Barton’s loud groan, of Barton pressing his hand so tightly it almost hurts.

Then suddenly, there is no air in the room left and the world goes black around him.

 

He emerges after a thousand years or the blink of an eye, he cannot tell. Something feels different, and he tries to sit up.

„Easy there, bella,“ a voice says, close to his ear, and he tries to focus on the face. Black dots appear, turn white. 

„What ...?“ he manages to say, but his voice comes out as a croak.

„Someone had his corset laced up too tightly and passed out.“

Ah! It's the deep, soothing voice of the man who fucked his ass. Loki feels himself calming.

„Are you alright to walk?“ 

Indra.

„Yes,“ Loki says, although he feels wobbly and lightheaded. Resolutely he tries to get up, but the sudden movement somehow turns his legs into jelly and he nearly collapses again.

„Easy there,“ Indra puts an arm around him, steadying him. He smells nice, Loki registers, of cologne and citrus. He smells like a _good man_. (The thought makes him wonder of course, what a good man smells like.)

Then Barton is beside him.

„I’ve got him,“ he says, a bit of tension in his voice, „You can let go now, thanks.“

Barton picks him up as if he weighs nothing and carries him out of the dark room, through the club. Loki is aware that two guys are walking in front of Barton, separating the crowd for them.

They escort them to the car. 

„Hey!“ one of them says, the moment Barton puts Loki onto the passenger seat.

„What?“ Barton snaps at him.

„Your corset,“ says the boy, ignoring Barton and handing the satin garment to Loki. Loki bestows a grateful smile onto him, since he feels too weak to speak. The boy’s face lights up at Loki's smile.

„By the way, my name is—„

„Fuck off,“ Barton growls, slams the passenger door shut and stomps around to his door. Everyone steps back, looking after the car, when Barton hits the gas with clenched teeth.

Why is Barton seething? Is it the thought that anyone could like him? Does he want the world to despise him the way he does? In a twisted way, Loki can understand that desire, and it hurts him. He _wants_ to please Barton, feels it’s his imperative, but he also wants to be liked. 

He no longer is indifferent to affection. It feels nice, people caring for him. It chases away for a brief moment the sadness he feels most of the time. When others come to be gentle to him, he feels, maybe perhaps one day Barton too may—

He must not entertain silly thoughts. He must not harbor illusions.

Hesitantly he reaches out and puts a hand onto Barton’s thigh, then pulls it back.

„I am sorry,“ he says. He has ruined this outing. He has somehow made others care, and he has displeased Barton. „I’ll do any—„

Barton stomps on the brakes, in the middle of the street. The sound of screeching tires fills Loki’s ears, then he is nearly thrown against the headboard, and yanked back by the seat belt.

Barton drums his fingers on the wheel, as if listening to a song, but it’s silent in the car.

Loki doesn’t dare to speak. Barton looks so angry, so haunted.

„Fuck yourself,“ Barton commands in a hoarse whisper.

Loki is confused.

Barton turns to look at him. The intensity of his eyes makes Loki scoot a bit back. 

Loki cannot predict at all what Barton is going to do next. He almost looks as if he might hit him, barely containing himself with his fingers suddenly clenched around the steering wheel.

Then Barton reaches for his thigh and caresses them. He nudges the legs apart, and Loki spreads them, without shame.

„Finger yourself,“ Barton says.

Loki blinks, but after a moment or two obliges. He spreads his legs a bit further, pressing his back against the passenger door and begins stroking his wet cunt. After a while Barton unzips his trousers and pulls out his cock, beginning to jerk it in violent, angry movements, as if Barton is furious at his own body. He likely is.

His cock is so beautiful, so perfect.

„You like looking at that cock?“ Barton taunts him but his voice is brittle.

Loki nods. He reaches around with his other hand, and slips two fingers into his cunt, imagining them to be Barton’s cock. It would be much thicker, right? He slips in another finger and sets up a vigorous rhythm, fucking himself harder and deeper. It’s not enough. He needs to be filled with cock, but he can’t have that, so he resigns himself to fucking himself as hard as possible with his fingers.

Barton swallows, the movement of his Adam’s apple barely visible in the half-light. 

„You’re going to be my fucking ruin,“ he says.

In another life Loki would have taken that as a victory. It would have filled him with a smug sense of superiority. Loki can remember feeling such things, but they hold no meaning for him now. Why would he feel satisfaction over Barton’s defeat?

He shakes his head, suppressing the pain in his chest.

„Please do not suffer on my behalf,“ Loki begs him, „take your pleasure in me. That is what I’m here for.“

Barton snorts.

„To serve me, right?“

„Yes,“ Loki says fervently and with conviction. _Oh, yes._. He never had any other purpose. Now that he knows, everything is as it should be.

He feels keenly how his ankle touches Barton’s clothed thigh in his position, and that small touch alone feels electric, sets his skin on fire.

Barton groans.

He caresses Loki’s stockinged leg, sliding his palm over the nylon, jerking himself off faster. 

„If you let me suck your cock, Agent Barton, we won’t bond. You have nothing to fear,“ Loki dares to suggest. „You’ve read my file, didn’t you?“

„I know what the file says, but with you, I’d rather be safe than sorry.“ Barton laughs an ugly laugh. Still he doesn’t push Loki away, as he scoots closer.

Slowly, to not spook Barton he grasps the thick, hot shaft.

Barton shudders. 

It feels so good in his hand, so _right_ , and Loki moans in pleasure, noting with a mix of shame and arousal how his cunt gets even wetter, by just touching Barton’s cock.

„I can smell your heat,“ Barton growls. He bucks into Loki’s hand. Loki rearranges himself and his limbs, shifts his body on the seat, so his face is close to Barton’s cock. He breathes lightly onto the glans, relishing how Barton throws his head back and curses softly.

Experimentally, Loki opens his mouth, but Barton grips his hair and yanks his head back.

„No,“ he gasps, „not ... that.“

Still, he holds Loki’s head in place, while he allows him to stroke his cock expertly. Loki would love to taste Barton’s cock, would love to be choked with it, to make him come with his tongue and his vigorous sucking. He focuses on bringing him off with his hand, re-calling every handjob Barton was given in his life, every masturbatory session. Judging from Barton’s growls and the involuntary movement of his hips he is doing a good job.

When Barton seems to near his orgasm, Loki gets bolder. He contorts his body in an admittedly painful way, to be even closer to Barton, lets his spit fall on Barton’s glans to slick him even more, braces himself with his other hand on Barton’s thigh.

He can’t almost remember the last time he had such intimate contact with Barton and something inside him soaks it up gratefully while begging for more. It’s exactly like a powerful drug—the feeling of Barton’s pulse underneath the skin of his inner thigh transports Loki to a high he has rarely experienced before. It’s an otherworldly sensation of lovelovelove and happiness and warmth and desire. Loki has to force himself not to crawl up and press himself to Barton, ride his cock and unite them, as they are meant to be.

He must not disobey. He’ll be good and do exactly as Barton tells him, be as good as he can be, and one day, Barton will see how devoted and faithful and loyal Loki is, and will forgive him. It will happen. 

Suddenly Barton sighs and presses Loki’s head towards his straining cock. Loki can feel it throb. The pressure Barton applies is unmistakeable, but Loki still looks up at his face for confirmation. He won’t disappoint Barton by taking advantage of his momentary weakness.

„Go on then,“ Barton only mumbles, „show me what you can do,“ and pushes again, and Loki does not need any more incentive. He opens his mouth and swallows Barton’s cock, shoves it deeply into his throat, completely ignoring the discomfort of his own body, the gagging sensation. All he can feel now is his purpose—to pleasure Barton, to make him happy. 

Barton arches up from his seat and cries out. In the same moment his cock stiffens even more—Loki can feel the slight thickening of the base, knows for the first time, how a real knot would feel—and Barton comes. He releases spurt after spurt into Loki’s wet, hot mouth, who drinks every drop gratefully, milks his cock with his lips, his tongue, pushes it down his throat.

It seems to take ages until Barton comes down from his high. Loki cherishes every second of it. He is still wet, his cunt is throbbing, demanding to be touched and filled, but Loki ignores it. He takes a strange pride in refusing himself pleasure. It pleases Barton doesn’t it? It shows him, that Loki can be trained. 

Fascinated Loki watches Barton’s spent cock twitch. The knot at the base isn’t very big, not as big as the knot on the dildo. Curiously Loki touches it, and Barton whines a little. He looks down at himself. His eyes are strangely unfocussed. Maybe it's the sheer strength of this orgasm—Loki would like to believe that, but something in Barton’s slightly erratic movements, his heavy-lidded gaze seems off. Perhaps it is nothing–just a combination of work-related exhaustion and exertion. He does not comment on it, and simply files it away.

„Wow, shit,“ Barton says, his voice slurred. „What the fuck?“

He grips himself, touches the base of his cock.

„It will deflate in a moment,“ Loki assures him, although he doesn’t have a clue himself. 

„Feels kinda good though,“ Barton comments, his head lolling back.

„I can still smell you,“ he says. Self-consciously Loki sits up and presses his legs together. 

„Fuck, you’re ripe, aren’t you?“ 

Barton reaches over and kneads Loki’s thighs, pushes them roughly apart. „Ah that delicious, sweet bitch smell, that’s what the boys like, hm?“ he mumbles. He presses his palm onto Loki’s cunt, gently grinding down and Loki cries out.

„Look how wet you are.“

Loki gasps and holds on to the back of the seats. Barton looks at him, studies his face, then stares between Loki’s legs.

As if he can’t stop himself he slips his fingers into Loki. 

Loki’s body reacts instantaneously. Every fiber of him recognizes immediately the touch of his Alpha it seems. He screams as he comes, spasming and clenching around Barton’s fingers, lost in absolute, blinding bliss and more than that.

So much more than that.

_I love you. I love you so much._

When Loki comes down from his high, when he has stopped twitching and trembling and his hand falls off the back of the seat he has been holding on for dear life, Barton takes it, presses it.

 _Oh._ Loki holds his breath, disbelieving.

Then Barton seems to come to himself. His gaze is a bit sharper and he zips himself up, starts the car. 

They drive back in silence, but the silence is comfortable. Barton seems still a bit boneless and mellowed, but who is Loki to complain. He notices that Barton reacts a tiny bit slower than usual, but again, Loki can’t drive at all so he shouldn’t judge other people’s driving.

In the apartment Barton immediately toes off his shoes and vanishes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Loki takes a long shower during which he penetrates himself with the wolf dildo again, carefully enlarging the knot, rubbing it over his little sweet spot in his cunt, and fingering his asshole, but all he can think off is Barton’s fingers in him, Barton’s eyes, the delicious hot taste of his cum, his fat cock.

The next morning Loki gets up extra early, and pulls out all the stops for Barton’s breakfast, cooks four eggs, grills bacon, slices avocado and eggs, toasts bagels, fills a bowl with yoghurt and fruits and pours plenty of maple syrup over it. Barton isn’t a coffee connoisseur, but Loki still buys the best brands he can find and grinds the beans himself. He is even so bold as to make him sandwiches for lunch, cut fruits into pieces and add a slice of a cake he baked a day ago, and only manages to slip into his room mere seconds before Barton leaves his bedroom. 

Breathless with excitement he listens to Barton finishing his plate off. When he can hear the elevator door close behind Barton, he carefully slinks out of his room, pads over the carpet to Barton’s room. The moment he enters it, peace comes over him. Barton’s smell clings on everything in this room. Loki grabs a discarded jacket and presses it to his nose, stumbles to the unmade bed, sheets underneath the blanket still a bit warm, and snuggles in.

When he drapes the jacket over his back, holding onto to the sleeves it’s like Barton is lying in bed with him, holding him. He has been indulging himself in this way for a while now. If anyone still watches the CCTV feed of Loki’s otherwise uneventful life, than they obviously keep quiet about it. Why should they care? Loki changes the sheets and the bedding every day, especially when he has slept in them to avoid leaving any traces of his presence that might upset Barton. Barton never needs to know.

He loves falling asleep in Barton’s bed. It lulls him to sleep, slowly, and it is the only sleep he wakes from almost refreshed.

A sudden noise wakes him. 

_Oh god, Barton is back._

Disorientated he scrambles out of the bed, only to stare into the barrel of a gun. 

Natasha Romanov’s face comes into focus.

With a quick movement she cocks the safety and puts the gun back into her belt.

„You startled me,“ she says in her bland, very un-startled sounding voice.

Of course he didn’t hear her come in. He was exhausted from the heat and he doesn’t have his old abilities any longer. Panic creeps up in him. He feels her gaze on him.

„You’re sleeping in Barton’s bed,“ she states, looking around.

„Please don’t tell him,“ Loki says. „ I ... he doesn’t know. I’m not doing anything wrong. I just like to sleep in his bed.“

Natasha says nothing, only begins to open wardrobes, pulls out a black, sturdy nylon bag, then packs his bow, his arrow, a few handguns, knives.

Her silence unsettles Loki.

„Please,“ he repeats, „please do not tell him. I beg you.“

She shrugs, rummaging around for ammunition.

„I won’t,“ she tells him.

Loki sags with relief. 

„Thank you,“ he says. 

He gets up, covering himself with the duvet and retrieves three boxes of ammunition for her. „Are you looking for these?“

She thanks him with a brief nod, then finishes packing Barton’s equipment.

„He’s been sent to Romania,“ she says as a way of explanation. „I’ll have a job in Uzbekistan, so we’ll meet for half an hour in Sofia. I promised him I’d bring his equipment.“

„I see,“ Loki replies. 

„He’s got a sentimental attachment to his stuff, really misses his gun and his bow,“ she says, and before Loki can stop himself, he emphatically says, _„I know! He really does!“_

Loki has sometimes caught Barton referring to his weapons with personal pronouns. 

„It’s a weakness,“ Natasha says. She zips up the sturdy black bag and shoulders it „getting attached can get you killed.“

She tilts her head and shrugs, „Then again we all take our calculated risks.“

Loki wraps his blanket tighter around himself.

She looks at him, lets her gaze wander down his frame.

„Are you starving yourself? Are you sick?“

„I don’t,“ Loki protests, „I'm healthy. I eat enough. I exercise sometimes just ... out of boredom.“

He has never felt safe in her presence since their encounter on the helicarrier, but now he feels as if her stare goes right through him. 

In this life she is the better liar. She can see through his lies, even better than before.

„Okay,“ she simply says.

Then she walks out of the room and he follows her, feeling a little stupid.

Instead of going to the elevator door she traipses into the kitchen.

„Do you have a piece of one your homemade cakes,“ she asks, craning her neck.

"Clint and Bruce told me," she says.

He opens the fridge and feels a hint of pride when he presents the inside to her. Most of the content is food he has cooked and prepared. Natasha's face can only be described as awestruck. 

"This is ... impressive," she says, her eyes sweeping over the contents of the fridge.

Natasha ends up with a piece of dark, rich, moist chocolate cake he made just a few days ago before Barton left.

It’s part of an important memory, one that Barton himself has half forgotten over the years. 

Loki has come across this memory in the very beginning of their acquaintance—Barton was a child then, living on the streets, pressing his nose against the window of a fancy chocolatier shop. An enormous chocolate cake, sprinkled with gold, was towering over the other cakes, adorned with silver sugar pearls and little peaked tufts of whipped cream. 

Through Barton’s eyes, Loki saw how it rose majestically from a bed of strawberries, a tower of indulgence and felt Barton’s childish awe and longing.

Little Barton peeked into the shop. The walls looked as if they were paneled in chocolate, the ceiling was a swirl of pinks and gold and a heavy chandelier sparkled in the middle of the room.

A girl in a fine wool coat sat with her mother at the table, a piece of that chocolate cake on a plate in front of her. The mother said something to her, and the girl turned her head away. He could not understand what was being said, but it looked like an argument. The mother tried to make her daughter eat, but the girl refused. She put a piece on a fork and waved it in front of the girl’s face, and the girl shoved it away, pouting. The mother seemed to sigh, rolled her eyes and gave up. She sat back, lit a cigarette, took out a gold powder case and powdered her nose.

As soon as the well-dressed, neatly combed boys who worked at the chocolatier shop became aware of the dirty street kid lurking outside, they chased him away. 

For the rest of the day Barton milled around the train station where he pocketed a few wallets, earned a bit of money when he lead a middle-aged, fat guy to a brothel but he returned to the shop in the night, smashed the glass with a stone and climbed into the window, reaching for the cake. 

The chocolate didn’t give. In fact the cake was as hard as concrete. Even the strawberries under his knees were not real, crumbling into little pieces. He gave the cake a shove, but it was mounted on a wooden panel. Barton kicked it, and finally the fake chocolate cake broke into two and the top tier fell to the marble floor of the shop. 

It was all a lie. 

A part of Barton wanted to stomp onto the pieces, grind the plaster to dust, kick the glass, but he didn’t move. He simply stood and looked at it all, the painted deception.

As young as he was he was already experienced enough to not bother with the large black and gold till in the front—he knew it was empty, the earnings of the day banked and put into a safe when the shop was being closed. When he heard foot steps and voices calling out, he scrambled out of the window, scratching his knees on his way out, jumped onto the pavement and ran.

Barton had so many bad memories about his childhood that this one wasn’t even particularly important, but for some reason he had kept the memory of the girl sitting at the table, looking bored and annoyed while that fat, shiny, piece of cake sat in front of her.

Loki himself doesn’t know exactly what he intends to _give_ Barton when he makes this cake, only that it is important to him. Or maybe he wants to repair a lie.

Also, apparently Barton loved that cake. (As usual Loki made it, when Barton wasn’t home, then left it on the counter. The next morning three gigantic slices had been taken out of it. Three.)

„He will be back in a few days,“ Natasha says, almost soothingly.

Yes, of course he would be in contact with her, Loki thinks. 

„How is he doing?“ he asks, before he can stop himself. He feels pathetic, like a dog begging for scraps. He just wants to speak about Barton, to listen to her talking about him. She seems oblivious, checking her phone, then reads a text aloud, where Barton complains about the weather conditions—they have to navigate through rocky terrain, it is raining and cold, and the changing winds slow his aim down, because he has to calculate the shots he takes.

When Natasha stops talking, Loki wants to scream at her to continue but he hides his despair by taking her plate and rinsing it before he puts it into the dishwasher.

„What do you think, why did you pick Clint?“ Natasha asks out of the blue, but Loki is not surprised, not really.

„I don’t know,“ he admits, „maybe alpha-omega bonds have to do with availability. The bonds are usually formed between to individuals who know each other. I don’t think it ever happens with two strangers. It’s rare that bonds are created between two members of different species.“

He is (very slightly) disappointed about the possibility that Natasha may just be here to squeeze him for information, but finds that in the end he doesn’t care. It’s not as if he is planning anything nefarious anyway.

„I saw him that day in New Mexico, when I came to earth to visit Thor in his cell. He was moving with such force, such elegance. I could not forget him. I felt it the moment I laid eyes on him. And then later, when I came back to earth,“ he omits any mention of the Chitauri, „he was in the S.H.I.E.L.D quarters, and it felt to me like destiny.“

He flushes a little at speaking so openly about Barton to Natasha but then he let countless men fuck him in a dirty restroom and in a club, pretty much in public, so shame is not really one of his priorities. It’s not so much about pouring his heart out. He simply relishes being able to speak to someone about Barton. Speaking about him, hearing about him is almost like having him here.

„Why did you assault him then?“ Natasha asks, and just like that, all cards are on the table. That is really why she is here, Loki realizes—to tell him that she knows and to find out why he did. Smart as she is, she probably knows, and just wants him to confirm her theory. When he looks at her, she simply tilts her head in her curious manner. 

Loki has no desire to lie to her. Yes, she is dangerous, she is a spy, she is Barton’s most loyal friend, she is the last person he should tell anything, and yet he can’t bring himself to care. After all, no one else is that close to Barton. Being friends with her, telling her his secrets is almost like speaking to Barton himself and he finds he cannot resist.

„Because I was afraid,“ he acknowledges bitterly.

He doesn’t ask how Natasha knows. Barton may have told her, she might have sussed it out on her own. Both scenarios are possible and it doesn’t really matter. In a way Loki feels relieved. 

„Do you believe me when I tell you that no day, no moment passes in which I don’t regret having done what I did?“ he asks her. 

„I believe you,“ Natasha says after a while. When Loki looks at her, he recognizes the familiar expression of pity in her eyes. Once upon a time he would have been enraged at the thought of someone pitying him. Now he simply accepts it. 

He is only glad that he is not alone any longer, that she knows.

„Maybe, one day he can forgive me,“ he says, „but I am not that blind. I know that it is not likely at all.“

When Natasha reaches out to take his hand, he flinches—he would expect anything but not that she would deliberately try to comfort him.

„Is this the moment where you thank me for my cooperation?“ he murmurs and smiles lightly.

Natasha presses his long fingers.

„I am sorry,“ she says, then frowns in this peculiar way of hers, as if she is puzzled by her own words.

Loki grips the edge of the counter-top so hard, his knuckles turn white. He must not cry in front of her. It would be the ultimate humiliation. 

„Please don’t say these things to me,“ he whispers. 

Natasha understands. 

„Alright,“ she says.

Not sure if he has said that before, he says „I hope he comes home safely.“

„He will,“ Natasha pats his hand, „that’s what he does.“

 

When, after a week, the screen in the living room beeps, he expects Natasha or Dr. Banner, ( _Bruce_!), but it’s Steve Rogers. 

„May I come up?“ he asks, very politely.

Bewildered, Loki nods.

Steve brings him a bottle of sake. 

„I feel bad in offering this to you, but a colleague gifted it to me, and I don’t really drink. Especially not sake,“ he says, „do you have any use for it?“

Loki likes sake, so he accepts. 

Captain America visiting the former arch villain and bringing a gift. If that isn’t absurd, Loki doesn’t know what it.

Steve stammers like a school boy, his cheeks red. He is, as Loki realizes with amusement, flustered about Loki’s dress.

Only to rile Steve, Loki leans in an almost suggestive pose in the door frame, batting his eyelashes.

„I feel we have long ignored each other,“ Steve says, looking anywhere but Loki, „and I’ll be honest: I needed time to come to terms with your presence here, and the whole thing with Clint ... and I do admit that there are things I don’t understand at all, but the more time passes, the more it seems foolish to me to not acknowledge you and to not speak to you. I think I owe it to myself to at least ... try.“

After his little speech, Steve takes a deep breath.

„Would you like a cup of coffee?“

Steve is kind of startled at that, but then accepts graciously. He sits primly on the sofa, and Loki, instead of sitting in the arm chair opposite, takes the seat beside him. 

Poor Steve is clearing his voice.

„The last time we met, you looked differently,“ he says, throwing a nervous glance at Loki’s flimsy black dress.

Loki smiles, and smooths his dress, pours him a cup of coffee, then hands him the cup.

„I hope it’s a positive change?“ 

Steve takes a sip of coffee.

„Ahem. It’s ... drastic,“ he says.

„I see,“ Loki’s lets his smile deepen. He should not be so childishly pleased to torture this poor man, but then he hasn’t many things in life left to enjoy, „are you disgusted?“

Steve sets down his coffee cup.

„I was _disgusted_ by your attack on innocent people and your determination to kill and destroy and take a planet that wasn’t yours to take, I was disgusted by your cold-blooded murder of Valerie Cooper, who seemed to have a friendly relationship with you, I was disgusted by the part you played in the death of your parents,“ he says, „but I am not disgusted by you wearing a dress or by what is underneath your dress if that is what you mean.“

Loki takes a long time to answer. This time he is the one averting his eyes, looking at the carefully manicured nails on his long hands.

„I apologize,“ he says softly, „I know it is not enough to regret what I did, and it will never be enough, but I do regret.“

Steve looks at him, in his earnest way.

„Apology accepted,“ he says simply. „Would you like me to address you as Ma’am?“

Loki throws his head back and laughs. Steve’s cheeks redden again and he takes up his cup again.

„Please don't,“ Loki says finally, „I am not a woman nor am I strictly speaking a man. I am Loki.“

Steve nods as if this makes sense.

„I am surprised you are here,“ Loki says, „I would have thought, that you would have preferred me going to trial and receive a prison sentence.“

„I suppose I did,“ Steve seems pensive. „Once I had a very clear idea of what justice should entail, of what path I should walk. These days it is not easy for me to see that path clearly.“

He looks at Loki.

„This is something gods don’t have to think about much. About morality. About good and evil. About the right things to do, the wrong things.“

Loki tilts his head.

„It’s a different struggle,“ Steve says, „from what I understand, the god who sits on this throne ... Hlidskjalf, right? They get to see the entire universe, right? So any Asgardian who sits on Hlidskjalf must have an entirely different insight to what good and evil is. We humans though ... we have murdered our gods. We have slaughtered our ideals. We have unveiled the naked truth but we cannot bear to look at it.“

„Are these the things that burden you?“ Loki asks, genuinely interested, „the question of what good and evil mean?“

„I would like it if there were clear answers,“ Steve says. „I am tempted to say, that the past was easier but of course that is self-deception.“

He shrugs.

„Yes, I am lost,“ he admits, but then looks straight into Loki’s eyes, „but so is everyone else.“

Loki is not sure what Steve is talking about.

„Recently I had to take a flight to Savannah and at the airport I was told by a woman to read this book ... which everyone called The Book, because apparently it is about real people from Savannah and one of these true stories people are so fond of these days. So I bought it. It was a decent novel I suppose but what I really liked were the title and the cover.“

Steve turns the empty coffee cup around in his hands. 

„It was a paperback copy, nothing special but it had this graveyard angel with its eyes closed on the cover and the title was ‚Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil’ and ... I really liked that. That title. It spoke to me.“

He looks up.

„Oh, angels are these beings with wings in Christian myth—„

„I know what angels are,“ Loki says gently. Why he feels the need to be gentle with this man he doesn’t know. 

„My apologies,“ Steve says, „I just ... meant ... when I was a child I believed in God, in angels, in heaven. So this image of this angel standing in the night, with its eyes closed made a strong impression on me. No other image told me better where we’re at. We’re in the garden of Good and Evil, and it is the deepest, darkest night and we have lost our way.“

„I see,“ says Loki. He wonders if Steve shares these thoughts with anyone else. When Steve remains silent, he says, „then again, this clear path never existed in the first place. It was a lie, if a friendly one.“

„I was wrong all the time,“ Steve says very quietly, „like Natasha says—love is for children. I am just a child.“

„Steve,“ Loki says.

Steve looks up.

„Why are you here? Why are you talking to me of all people about these things?“

Steve shrugs.

„I thought, you of all people perhaps ... would have answers. Ideas.“

Loki shakes his head.

„I was a liar. The god of lies. And now, these days, I am ... nothing.“

„You are not nothing,“ Steve says fiercely, „I don’t know if I can ever like you. I don’t know if I can ever forgive, if I will ever stop being wary of you, but you are not a nothing. You said it before. You are Loki.“

Loki smiles. 

„I recall that you liked to disagree,“ he teases Steve.

„And I would do so again, in a heartbeat, were you to do again, what you did then,“ Steve says.

Such a soldier, such a brave, honest heart. The Loki of the old days would have liked to tear this heart apart, to shred it to pieces and feed it to monsters, but now Loki can’t help but be glad that this heart still beats, wholly and unharmed in the chest of this human being, the most human of all human beings perhaps he has met so far.

It feels slightly inappropriate but even after Steve has left he is still in high spirits. For the first time in months he feels less hopeless. Whenever he can, which is almost constantly, he relives the last night he had with Barton; the touches, the tension, the words exchanged. It is still a long way to go, but at least there is something. Loki is no fool and knows that what he saw in Barton's eyes was not love or even acceptance but the way Barton looked at him—there was a tiny bit of warmth there.

Natasha's and Steve's visits have put his anxious nerves on ease as well. If Barton were to despise him as much as he did in the beginning, they would hardly visit him. The fact they did must mean something—a tentative offer of friendship. 

All in all, Loki thinks, these have been good three weeks.


	19. Like A Tear In The Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have already warned for character death in the additional tags section but just to be on the safe saide—there will be character death in this chapter. It's only a minor OMC though.
> 
> Thank you dear [Schemingreader](archiveofourown.org/users/schemingreader/pseuds/schemingreader) for your beta! I have added sections to the beta'ed chapter so all remaining errors are mine.

Clint jerks awake, pulled out of unconsciousness. The night he wakes up to is darker than the dream he dreamt.

_Where the fuck am I?_

His head hurts, the smell of iron and copper clogs his nostrils and one side of his face is sticky with blood. 

His heart rate is accelerated and his body is under shock. He has possibly suffered a concussion. The pain he should feel right now but doesn’t will get sharper, more intense later.

There is a small, scraping sound—some small animal scurrying around to his right, he thinks, which tells him he is likely in some sort of basement. Maybe he is imagining it. 

 

_  
"Moje li da Vi Po—?"_

_Clint stared with badly concealed impatience at the young sales clerk blocking his way in the fancy, over-perfumed halls of the Tsum department store._

_"I don't speak Bulgarian," he said rudely, turning away._

_"No problem," the sales assistant replied in accented English, stepping around to face him, "Can I help you with some—"_

_"Thanks, I'm fine," Clint gritted out between clenched teeth, while trying to focus on Agent 3A orders in his ear piece._

_"Are you looking for something special?"_

_The pesky boy was determined to not leave him alone apparently._

_"I said, I'm okay," Clint shoved him out of the way, into a shelf. Merchandise clattered to the floor._

_He felt the shop assistant bristle with anger and stare after him, as he made his way to the back of the department store._

 

Slowly, ever so slowly he tries to move his right arm. Only then he realizes that he is buried to his chest. Something heavy is on top of his body. He can't feel his legs. When he tries to move, a weight is holding him back. His left arm is stuck in some sort of gravel or sand up the elbow. His right arm hurts when he moves it to quickly but he can manage.

He coughs.

Bad idea. Approximately a million knives stab his chest. He can feel something bitter in his mouth.

Gritting his teeth he reaches for the small flashlight in his pocket. The simple movement of gripping and pulling it out takes five minutes making him nearly sob with pain. Finally he's got it and tries to turn it on, but his fingers slip off the plastic switch.

He lies back. His memories are hazy (likely due to his concussion).

_He was walking through the cosmetic section of that fancy department store, the air filled with a mixture of Comme Des Garcons, Versace and sweat. He was speaking to an agent on his ear piece, pretending to look at his phone. The encounter with the stupid sales clerk had cost him valuable seconds._

But where is he now, goddammit? Clint forces himself to think, clinging stubbornly to the image of the department store. He had moments like this before, emerging out of unconsciousness and being disorientated. He knows how to handle himself, doesn't panic. 

With minute shifts of his upper body and some force he manages to free his left arm too, but the movement seems to unsettle something, and dust, sand, pieces of concrete pour down onto his face. Finally he gets the flashlight working. Its bright white light make his eyes tear at first. 

There are chunks of concrete, one massive pillar that seems to have broken into two pieces, the reinforcement steel bars jutting out of the lower part. That pillar alone could have killed him, but its fall was miraculously halted by the sturdy wall to his right.

A damage like this can only occur as a consequence of a detonation.

He has to cough again. 

There is the sound again–a rat? He tries to twist his body around, the flashlight creeping over more broken concrete, rubble, dust. 

 

_He swung down from a rafter, found a bar wide enough to carry his weight, focussing on the agent's voice in his ear piece giving him instructions. He saw the narrow edge the agent told him to pull himself up on it, reaching for the yellow ladder that went all the way down, then attached a carabiner with the other end of the rope bound around his waist, fastened a rope sheave onto the carabiner. Patiently he began to descend, the only sound in the silence the whirring of the rope sheave and occasional clanking of the heavy duty carabiner against the wall of the elevator shaft._

_These were the favourite moments in his job: when he was allowed to simply execute one step after the other, following a protocol. When he could implement a plan, no matter how dangerous and how lethal._

_He was almost happy when he was on his own. In these moments he could push the world away and just focus on the next step. No thinking was involved, no painful questioning, just a strange silence buzzing in his mind._

_Even when his job entailed the disposal of another human beings, he was oddly satisfied with it. He was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. which meant he was working for the good guys. When an assignment was about killing someone, then in most cases this someone had done something to deserve being killed. It was simple. He didn’t need to know more._

_After he carefully assembled the bomb, then attached it between the concrete wall and the ladder, he pushed the timer and pressed a release causing the sheave to pull him up. He let the whirring sound of the rope fill his ears, and looked upwards._

_His mind was already busy planning his evening. S.H.I.E.L.D would fly him out and he would spend a few weeks in Istanbul where he would have nothing to do but to debrief with Director Fury in the Turkish S.H.I.E.L.D office. The rest of the time he would devote to diving, a bit of additional training, going out and finding some pretty people to fuck._

_Eventually he'd have to return to New York, but he'd wait it out in Europe as long as possible. He couldn't go back to Kassel and buy a new stash from Schneider. His last stash was supposed to last him a few weeks longer, and going back now would make him look suspicious: Schneider would either think he was re-selling his stuff or he was a junkie._

_Damn Schneider and his business morals._

_He reached the end of the ladder and, with one foot on the last bar, and the other on the rafter beam, he carefully began to pry open the elevator doors, using his favorite prying bar. (Natasha did scold him now and then, that he was too attached to his own utensils, but it was sometimes of advantage to use your own stuff.)_

_The tinny voice of the agent in his ear piece hissed,"Told you to wait, what is wrong with you? Down, 9B."_

_Barton immediately moved to let the doors slip shut again, but in this very moment a bald man in a suit passed the open doors and looked right at him. Bad timing._

_Within a split second Clint could see that he wore a name tag and a gun under his suit jacket. He moved faster than lightning—before the bald man could even grab his gun he pushed the doors open, reached for the man, snapped his neck, then threw the body over his shoulder into the elevator shaft. He didn't even see his face._

_3A cursed into his ear piece._

_"… what the fuck …"_

_Clint suppressed the desire to shut him up, but then gritted his teeth. He wasn't hired to talk back so he didn't._

_"Corridor cleared," he muttered._

_He realized he hadn't confirmed that he had attached the bomb and activated it._

_"Initiate evacuation protocol in ten minutes," he muttered into his mic, glancing at the watch. The business with the bald guy had cost him perhaps thirty seconds. No biggie._

_"Initiating protocol," the agent confirmed, calm again._

_Clint took the moment to slide down the wall, sit on the floor, crush a capsule in his palm, then snort the powder. He licked the rest off and let the coolness wash over him._

_"9B, please confirm location," the agent's voice pestered him again._

_"I'm okay," he said, cursing himself for the delay (1.4 seconds), looking at the watch again that showed him also the countdown of the bomb. Eight minutes to go. He had plenty of time._

_3A was young—he sounded distressed. He'd get used to navigating missions like these, Clint thought. In a few months, he'd have lost the nervous edge in his voice, would barely manage to remember the body count of each mission, would sleep soundly through his nights._

_"Agent 3A," he interrupted while the agent was rattling down numbers and coordinates._

_"E … excuse me, Agent?"_

_"How old are you?" Clint asked, hauling himself up. God, he missed Natasha. He was used to working with her. Natasha would never lose her nerve._

_"I er … this is not protocol, 9B …" the agent sounded almost like a child._

_"Just answer. Speak to me," Clint adjusted his ear piece, and suddenly the agent's voice was crisp and clear in his ear, as if he was standing right behind him._

_Clint remembered the boy from the briefing, a soft-skinned, milk-white face, brown curly hair, eager eyes that oscillated between green and brown. He remembered wondering if the boy was straight or not. Some of these kids gave very mixed signals._

_"Twenty-three, sir … 9B."_

_“Are you nervous?”_

_Clint pried the elevator doors open again._

_“A little,” 3A admitted._

_Pulling up his small black canvas satchel, he had left hanging on the ladder before, Clint made his way to the ground floor._

_“I did mission control and planning before, but never with … with you.” 3A was not supposed to name him or any participants of the mission._

_“Bey you didn’t know how difficult I am,” Clint teased, under his breath, as he let himself down on the rope, meter for meter._

_3A emitted a sound that sounded like a snort over the mic._

 

When he finally manages to free his left arm, pain shoots up from the wrist, but it’s relatively mild.. He gingerly attempts to rotate his wrist. Something halts his movement. Well, when the adrenaline is purged from his system and pain sets in he'll have plenty of cues and time for self-diagnosis.

The flashlight feels heavy in his hand and his fingers feel clumsy. 

Without even thinking he reaches up to his breast pocket, feeling instantaneous relief when he can feel his meds. 

Okay. They're there. 

Now on to the next part, he pats his upper body down, and finds the strap of the canvas bag which has a few weapons, a very basic medical kit. Technically he should take more on missions like that, but it has been ages since Clint has been severely injured in the line of duty, so he took risk and brought only a field dressing, surgicaltape, and a wound disinfectant.

An attempt to tug the bag free results in a minor avalanche. Ah, rookie mistake. He slows his movement down. Until he isn't able to see the exact measures of the room he is in, the amount of rubble he is buried under and is positive about the stability any panicked, fast movement can result with his head and face covered by stones and rubble knocked loose.

Then he hears it again—the sound.

This time he recognizes it clearly for what it is, beyond doubt, and it chills him.

Someone else is here.

 

_Clint reached the basement level._

_3A was busy counting down the seconds until the corridor he was supposed to enter was clear._

_"Go."_

_Clint moved with the precision of a Swiss clock—set the prying bar, pushed the doors open, hauled himself up and entered the corridor._

_He had only a time frame of four seconds._

_When he reached the next elevator that would take him to the business suites, 3A changed plan and told him not to move. Clint, used to immediately obey to the commands in his ear, froze. Then another "Go" followed and he resumed his movements, unquestioning, smooth and flawless._

_The camera in the next elevator was disabled by the time Clint entered, and he could assemble his Glock and the silencer in peace. In the ensuing silence and pause 3A began to explain the reason for straying from the plan earlier but Clint only muttered, "Not interested, give me a rundown of the next steps."_

_Thankfully 3A was professional enough to not complain about Clint's lack of courtesy and immediately began to direct him through the maze of corridors until he stood in front of the women's bathroom. When 3A said "Go", he opened the door, aimed and shot._

_His target, a woman in a wrap dress, standing with her back to him and drying her hands, crumpled to the floor without a sound._

_One down, two more to go._

_A siren began to wail, followed by a robotic voice beginning to blare out commands in Bulgarian out of the speakers in the corridor._

_The evacuation process had begun._

_3A's voice impressively didn't waver, but immediately continued to deliver the coordinates for his next strike._

_Clint moved, again with perfect precision, letting 3A be his eyes and ears, shot before he himself could see the target. It was a clean head shot. The gun felt warm in his hands._

_They were late, due to his fuck up when he set the bomb and his belated confirmation, but Clint had had tougher situations. Budapest for example. He allowed himself a smirk, then focused on 3A's voice again, raised the gun, when he was told to raise it, fired and hit another man right between the eyes._

_"All targets eliminated, now get out of here."_

_Clint let the bow, he carried over his shoulder slide to the front, shot an arrow rigged with a small detonator device at a closed door, counted—three—two—one, covering his ears when the explosion blasted the door open. He began to run towards it, picking up speed, shot another arrow which he aimed at the railing of a stair case. The tip of this arrow, specifically customized by Clint, split into three hooks and turned into an anchor. With a movement he had trained for years, Clint swung himself over the railing, grabbed the arrow and attached a steel rope to it. Disregarding the usual caution he immediately let himself fall down, the rope burning his leather glove._

_Sixth floor—fifth floor—fourth floor—third floor—When he passed the first floor, he locked his legs in order to withstand the impact of getting his feet on to the ground again. The rope would stabilize him, but still he needed to be able to run immediately, as the bomb would soon—_

 

The bomb had detonated too early. Clint had misjudged the time he had, and he had still been in the building, and that was why he is now trapped in this dark, claustrophobic space. 

He is afraid for a moment, in a way he hasn't been since he was a child–not so much because of the dire situation at hand, but because he has let something happen, he shouldn't have. A mistake of this gravity would have never ever happened to him before.

Loki, he thinks. It's his fault.

This would have never happened were it not for Loki. Loki may be human—somewhat—but he still manages to wreak havoc, to destroy, to insinuate himself into his thoughts. Loki is like black smoke, able to get in through the tiniest cracks. If he would not have to suppress Loki's constant presence in his mind, he would have been able fully focus on his mission.

He cranes his head, then tries to crawl closer to the vaguely human-shaped lump. Every millimeter feels as if it takes him minutes. 

His hand grazes a piece of plastic and he recognizes his ear piece, snatching it mindlessly and putting it back into his ear. He switches it on. At least there is some sort of faint static noise.

His efforts are accompanied by a steady stream of dust, of stones, and rubble pouring down and sometimes, more disconcerting, shifts of the top layers in the rubble pile. Finally he is free, if utterly exhausted and out of breath, but his legs refuse to work, they feel like jelly. The pills he took likely dampen a lot of the pain in them. 

Glancing up, he thinks he may not be able to stand upright anyway. The ceiling looks far too close and cracked. 

The next moments are spent with trying to roll over. He retrieves his canvas bag from the pile by pulling it ever so slowly out of the pile. During the manoeuvre he tugs too hard and a concrete chunk dislodges slightly, causing a minor avalanche. There is another large piece of concrete, pieces of marble stuck on it, that has broken but has been somewhat supported by that concrete pillar. These two concrete pieces have effectively saved his life he realises, keeping him from the being entirely buried.

He finally reaches the other person whose face is covered in soot. One eye seems to be swollen. He is wearing a suit, ash-coloured now by the concrete dust. 

Beneath the chest Clint sees an enormous wound with jagged seams, intestines spilling out. His right leg is bent at an odd angle but at least it's not an open fracture. One of his shoes is missing.

Clint has only rudimentary medical training. He lies the man flat on his back after checking that he has no other wounds on his back. He cuts the blood-drenched pieces of his suit away, but leaves the pieces that look stuck on it, like a piece of burnt and melted plastic fiber from the cheap suit the man was wearing.

He curses himself now for his decision to leave most of his medical kit in his hotel room, for only taking what he thought he'd need. He and his eternal optimism. Another miscalculation.

Sitting on his haunches he pulls on the pair of sterile gloves he has in the kit. He disinfects the stomach and gently moves the intestines onto the top of the stomach.

Thank God, he took one field dressing, big enough to cover the wound. Just when Clint places the dressing on top of the wound, the man lets out a whimper. Despite his internal flinch he continues, holds the white rectangle in place, grasps its tail then carefully pulls it underneath the body, wraps the dressing up. 

(It's a waste of time anyway, Clint knows, in the back of his mind. This man is already as good as dead.)

It's not big enough, Clint can't really tell. Shouldn't the edges of the dressing cover more of the area around the wound? He isn't sure and for a second he nearly hyperventilates.

Stop freaking out like a fucking rookie, he tells himself. You can do this. You have done it, a million times.

No, he was never trapped with one lethally injured person in a space smaller than his walk-in closet.

He takes his own jacket off and cuts the sleeve into pieces, cuts, saw, and tears, then puts it over the dressing and wraps the ends up as well.

He can hear laboured breathing.

Why can't the guy just stay unconscious. Should someone who lost so much blood not just stay unconscious, then die?

"Voda …" the man whispers.

Clint forces himself to look at the man's face. It is the hardest thing to do. He is fine when dealing with intestines, the open wound, but somehow the thought of having to look into this dying person's face is nearly unbearable.

He is just a boy. He is tall and broad-shouldered, which is why Clint thought of him as a man first, but his face is so very young. Large blue eyes frame with impossibly long lashes peer out of a grime and blood colored face at him, unseeing perhaps, Clint can't tell. He has dark, thick eyebrows, a soft mouth, that under all the soot and grime is pink, Clint is sure.

Slowly Clint says, "I don't speak Bulgarian."

He observes the boy's face for any signs that he understands. The large eyes blink. 

"English … I speak," he whispers.

Then: "Az ne mozha da se dvizhi."

Clint shakes his head.

"Ne," he says, "ne bulgarski."

The boy inhales, then coughs up blood. "Cannot feel. Legs. Arms. Cannot … move."

Very slowly Clint slips his hand underneath the boy's neck, whose eyes are wide with panic now. 

Fracture in C5 or C6, he thinks, feeling around a large swelling. The skin has not been broken. 

"What is wrong?" the boy asks, in his hoarse, whispery voice, then coughs. His teeth are tinted red. Clint holds his head so he can't turn to the side. 

"Your neck is damaged," he says, swallows, "don't move your head, okay?"

"Water," the boy whispers, "please."

Clint moves to look for his water bottle, but the boy immediately pleads, "Don't leave me, please." 

His eyes are rolling wildly. Clint is reminded of a panicked animal.

"I'll be right over there, just getting a bit of water, " Clint says.

The boy swallows, keeps looking at him with large eyes.

Clint finds a full water bottle in his bag, digs around for clean tissue. He dabs the tissue with the water then presses it on the boy’s face, wipes his lips.

"More," the boy whispers.

"Sorry, kid," Clinton says, "You can't eat or drink anything now, not good for your wound."

"Oh," the boy breathes out. His eyes roll up to the ceiling.

"Is it bad?" he asks.

Clint usually tells people the truth. No use in lying to them. He'd prefer dying knowing what's happening to him. 

"Yeah," he says, "it's kind of ... bad."

"Oh God, no," the boy says, his eyes suddenly shining with tears. "Will I die?"

The boy's eyes are pleading with him.

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, then shakes his head.

"No," he says, "you'll be okay."

The boy smiles. He believes Clint because he wants to believe him. 

"What is your name anyway?"

"Milan," the boy says.

"Hey, Milan, I'm—."

"I know you," Milan says with recognition in his eyes.

And just in this moment Clint recognizes him too. The pushy sales clerk.

"You should have evacuated," he says in a flat voice.

" _Someone_ pushed me into a shelf," Milan says, looking at Clint, "I had to clean up."

"Sorry," Clint says lamely, "I was in a hurry."

"So I could see."

Clint dabs the boy's lips again with the tissue. He takes another, and begins to wipe his face clean.

"What happened? Bomb?"

"I don't know," Clint says. "I think so. There was an explosion. I woke up just a few moments before you."

Milan is silent for a few moments.

"Is my neck broken? … I cannot walk?" 

Milan's eyes are on his face again.

"It’s just … damaged," Clint says, "you’ll get surgery. Some rehab, then …"

"Re-what?"

"You need er, training."

_Make it convincing, Clint._

"Ah," Milan breathes out. "But it's not too bad. Good."

"Get some rest now," Clint says, aware how brusque he sounds. "You'll make yourself thirstier by talking."

"You're not lying to me, right?" Milan asks, laughing weakly, "Right?"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Clint says, suddenly angry, "I'm no fucking doctor, but you'll be okay, kid."

 _Stop being an asshole_. 

That was Natasha's voice. 

"Sorry," Milan croaks, "I … I am afraid."

Clint gnaws at his lips.

"Can you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What is your name?"

"I'm Clint," he says, "Clint Barton."

Milan's eyes widen.

"You … are … Hawkeye!"

Clint nods tersely. He gathers the remains of his cut-up jacket and covers the boy's torso. Due to his fracture he cannot see himself but who knows. And it's easier for Clint too.

"You are an Avenger!" Milan says smiling. 

Then he begins wheezing. More blood bubbles out of the corners of his mouth.

Clint knows what that is—it's the end of the beginning.

Milan's eyes widen in panic, struggling futively for breath, and Clint grips his head to keep him from moving it.

"Listen, Milan" he says, looking into the boy’s eyes, "you have trouble breathing due to your injury. Don't worry, you'll be okay."

Milan's eyes wander over his entire face, as if trying to detect the lie, but then he seems convinced and blinks.

Without thinking Clint lowers his mouth and breathes into Milan's lungs, the way he has learned it years ago. Thankfully Milan is back within five repeats. His chest begins to rise and fall.

"Couldn't … breathe."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Clint says. It's shock. Or your injury. Whenever you stop breathing, I'll breathe for you, ok?"

He can feel Milan try to nod, and holds him.

"Don't try to move. For yes, blink once, for no look to the right or left, okay?"

Milan blinks, then smiles his wide, trusting smile.

“Wow, an Avenger,” he says, almost to himself. 

Clint gets his bag, then after a bit of looking around he takes his top off, folds it neatly, then puts both items right and left from Milan's head so he is stabilized—somewhat.

It's not perfect, but it has to suffice.

"I would have never thought in my wildest dreams I would ever meet an Avenger. Hawkeye," Milan says. "Now I know I will be okay. Really okay."

He smiles at Clint.

"Yana loves you. She says, you are very cool!"

"Yana," Clint says, "Your girlfriend?"

"My sister," Milan says, then sadly, "I have no girlfriend."

Maybe it's not so bad to let him talk, Clint figures. Might as well. He won't make it anyway.

"What are you doing in Sofia?" Milan asks, "Or am I not allowed to know? Super secret, eh?"

"Yeah, but I know I can trust you," says Clint.

"Really?" Milan smiles widely. Clint can see blood on his teeth, still red, almost pink, but drying intoa maroon-coloured stain on his lips and on his chin, “so you can tell me about the mission?”

“I was hunting down some badass terrorists.”

“In Sofia? In the Tsum? What terrorists?”

“Weapon dealers,” Clint says, “they bought a whole bunch of Glocks illegally in Vienna, then smuggled them to Sofia and today was supposed to be the money exchange.”

He moistens another tissue then wipes the boys lips. His tongue snakes out to catch more moisture.

“In the Tsum? In a department store? Why?” Milan breathes.

“Yeah, because people think it’s safe to hide in crowded places. We couldn’t take out these guys so that’s why we decided to bomb the department store. Also destroys the evidence—their bodies, the cctv cameras and so on, you know? Can’t leave any traces.”

Milan is listening, the expression on his face rapt.

"You could not shoot the terrorists because hat would have caused a scandal?” breathes Milan.

“Exactly,” Clint says, “that’s why. We can’t afford that. You’re pretty sharp.”

"if Yana could hear that she would laugh and laugh. She often says, I am so slow!"

"Well yeah, sisters," Clint says. "I mean, I didn't have a sister. I had a brother. But I would have liked to have a sister. Bet you wished you had a brother."

"Not really," Milan says, and Clint hears the heavy, Slavic accent in the way he rolls the r and stretches out the e. "Yana is a good sister."

The ear piece in Clint's ear begins to crackle. S.H.I.E.L.D is probably trying frantically to establish communication with him. They must know he is alive, from the GPS signal of his implant.

"There is one girl I like," Milan says dreamily.

"What's her name?" Clint asks. Automatically he puts water on a tissue and dabs Milan's lips with it. Milan gratefully licks his lips.

"Mira," he says, and his entire face lights up as he says her name. Clint has to look away.

"Nice name," he says, "Where did you meet her?"

"She is my colleague. At the perfume counter. During weekdays there are not so many customers and we chat. It is boring, so we talk a little bit—she makes a lot of jokes. But, you know, she never smiles. I mean, she says funny things but is very serious.'

Milan mimics her face, her frown, then chuckles. Clint sees blood foaming at the corner of his mouth.

"I like that. She makes fun of me, says I am too easy. She says, people who laugh too easily are fools. But in a nice way."

Milan coughs, struggles for air, wheezing. His eyes bulge, and his lips turn blue-ish. Clint bends over him, clamps his nostrils shut then blows air into his lungs. This time it takes longer. After twenty-four times of blowing air into Milan's mouth, his chest begins to rise and fall again.

"Thank you," he whispers.

The earpiece crackles, then, "9B?"

"I'm here," Clint says. 

"Okay, thank god. I thought you were …"

"How long until you can get me out of here?" Clint is impatient. When he catches Milan looking up at him, he winks. Milan smiles.

"Two hours."

_I don't even have one hour._

"How about faster. I have an injured civilian here."

"One hour is the fastest we can do," says 3A apologetically.

"Are you absolutely positive?" 

It's their code, and 3A understands.

"I am sorry," he says, "we have to work through tons of reinforced concrete. You're in the basement."

He pauses, then, "It can't be done. I'm … very sorry."

Clint knows then it's futile. Milan is not going to make it. And anyway, even if he would make it, he would have to live as a quadriplegic for the rest of his life. 

"Any other damage?" he asks, maintaining a flat, bored voice.

"Some minor injuries, a few fractures, there might have been others who evacuated too late. We don’t know yet."

Clint crouches down beside Milan again.

"They'll be here soon, but they have to dig through the concrete," he says, disgusted by the own fake cheerfulness in his voice. He is not quite sure, if Milan has heard him. His eyes have acquired the typical brightness of dying people.

"She was reading Like A Tear In The Ocean by Manes Sperber, do you know him?"

Clint shakes his head.

"In her lunch break. I spoke about it to her, and we first had an argument about it. We talked very long about it. After work we went to the park and sat on the bench and talked even more about it."

Milan's eyes turn glassy, then he gasps.

"I cannot breathe," he manages, "please …"

Clint applies mouth to mouth again. Fifty times until Milan is back, until his lungs work again. 

"The day the aliens attacked we went out on the street and looked at the sky," Milan says, when he can speak again, but his voice is so soft, merely a thin whisper, and Clint has to nearly press his ear against Milan's lips. "We thought we were going to die. We did not know—only saw pictures in the news. She took my hand and pressed it. That means she likes me, yes?"

"Yes, definitely," Clint says, "Man, she's into you!"

Milan closes his eyes, and his face looks very serene.

“So the bad guys are dead?” he asks.

“Mission accomplished.” Clint holds up his thumb, grins.

“Dobre. Good,” Milan says, “I am … glad.”

He pauses for a while, then continues, his voice barely audible.

"I really liked what Mira said about you. She said, you are super-heroes but your power is not that you are so strong. Your power is that you care and that you are ready to lay down your lives for us. She says, that is your true power."

"That's … very beautiful," Clint says, and is astonished to hear how strange his voice sounds.

"Ah," Milan murmurs, looking at him. Something like realization flickers across his features. 

"So it's not so good, eh? Not like you said. You look too sad for everything to be alright."

Clint can't help but glance at the stomach wound, where the blood has soaked through.

"It'll be alright," he lies bravely, "you'll be okay."

"So, I'll see Mira again? We'll sit on the park bench after work and talk about books, yes?"

"Yeah," Clint nods, "you'll be fine."

“You promise, ey?”

“Yes. I promise,” Clint grits out.

"Ah, you have to visit us," Milan says, “you will like Mira.”

"Yeah, definitely," Clint nods again, grinning, "I will. I'll bring the others, Steve, Bruce, Tony, Natasha and Thor."

"Really? You will do that?" Milan's eyes look suddenly very dark. His pupils are dilating. Death is only a moment away now.

"Of course," Clint keeps grinning.

"Az ti vyarvam," Milan says softly, then nothing. 

His breathing stops again.

Clint administers mouth to mouth, fifty times, then seventy. He attempts CPR, but with that large wound it's difficult. He works mechanically, the way he trained himself, detached from his own body. He observes himself, rhythmically trying to press air into the boy’s dead lungs.

After approximately eight minutes Clint closes Milan's eyes.


	20. Until Night Arrived With Its Hellish Glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note:  
> This chapter contains relatively explicit F/M in this chapter ('ll add a tag as soon as I post this) and there will be _very_ graphic violence. 
> 
> Also, this chapter concludes Book 1.
> 
> I had never intended there to be a Book 1. Or a Book 2, but now there are. I made the decision when sifting through all my drafts I realised, that this fic has two plot arcs, with the overarching main theme of Loki's journey and development.
> 
>  
> 
> **A big, big, BIG thank you for[Rex Luscus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus)! Without her help this fic would be a mess! All remaining errors are mine! All my undying love to her! **
> 
>  
> 
> Finally you should know that there is a tag in my huge pile of warnings saying "Happy Ending" and I want you to remember that no matter what, it still holds and I'm not going back on this promise. 
> 
> This is not the end, okay? 
> 
> Thank you and I love you.
> 
> * * *

His first winter living in New York, Loki gets to know the commercial and social phenomenon that is Christmas. It offers distraction and Loki finds himself wandering the streets, gazing at decorated shop windows, always trailed by two S.H.I.E.L.D agents (though lately the security measures seem to be even more relaxed and Fury often just sends one agent with him).

He is at first amused and bewildered at the blatant mercantile aspects of the event but comes to appreciate it—the mechanics of it, the rituals, even the prescribed sentimentality. 

By now it's not even unsettling anymore that being human comes attached to a desire to be manipulated, to be told what to feel, when to feel it.

All places that allow people to possess things and to exchange possessions have something like an economy in place, even realms like Asgard or Jotunheimr. Where there is trade, there is money or something very much like it. Frost giants have sparks of magic, an inherent access to ancient powers, and are able to transfer them with the aid of older, more educated frost giants or capable users of magic like Amora. Young frost giants are prohibited from bartering their magic because they are more impulsive and prone to selling off their magical abilities in the vain conviction that their immense physical powers will suffice them to gain them back at a later stage. Very old frost giants who have amassed a wealth of magic frequently sell a piece of their powers to mages in exchange for their services.

Asgard has something like an economy as well, but no corporations or virtual money, no stocks, no shares. Many cultural habits sprang from a time where Asgardians' lifespans had been shorter and they lived a far more martial lifestyle. Certain spiritual celebrations and festive days are remnants of these times. Some of these holidays are faintly similar to Christmas but without the overpowering commercial aspect.

Yet Loki is fascinated and weirdly drawn to the frantic commercialism that dominate the Midgardian winter days, the sense of excitement. It’s as if thousands of years of existence, of living are slowly fading away in his memory.

It's a mild surprise that the harsh, windy New York winter doesn't faze him, but then, a part of him is still Jotun. The Asgardian council may have removed all traces of Asgardian magic in him, but it wasn't able to take his Jotun-ness from him entirely. He doesn't even need to wear a coat and dons it only so he doesn't stand out, and because getting dressed has become a main event in his life, a ritual he often spends more than an hour on, always trying to guess what Barton would like. 

Loki knows that Barton likes Christmas. 

Barton never experienced the kind of Christmas he wished for as a child, the type of Christmas perhaps all hungry, orphaned children wish for, a Christmas filled with warmth, the scent of cookies and cinnamon, a home with loving parents. Loki knows Barton has never told anyone, but he always harbored a secret yearning for it. Barton learned early on to squash and hide this kind of childish desire. Life was not kind to homeless children wandering the streets, and his mind was already overwhelmed with surviving. Like the gigantic chocolate cake in that shop window, Christmas was a lie—it was unreal, like another universe he had no part in.

Natasha regularly gives Barton Christmas presents. It's partly a form of good-natured teasing on her side, but Loki doubts she is aware of how much her presents mean to Barton. He doubts _Barton_ is aware of how much they mean to him. Once she gave him an ugly red and green sweater with reindeers on it. It was meant as a joke, but although Barton laughed, he wears it every year faithfully on Christmas Eve. Fury once gave him a bottle of exquisite whisky and a medieval long bow. It's affixed on the emerald green wall opposite Barton's desk in the study and cared for greatly by him.

Loki buys presents for Barton. Thor, or the council in his name, grants him a sizable income. Asgard's gold is cleverly disguised as non-existent investments, non-existent shares in non-existent companies, by sharp-suited people with cold stares who have their offices in Switzerland, London, and Dubai. It all ends up in the black plastic rectangle in Loki's wallet.

(It's ironic that Thor has grand words about honor but is able to turn a blind eye to corruption. Deliberate blindness has been one of Thor's defining traits, though, something his friends liked to term "innocence" but Loki used to call "willful ignorance".)

He amuses himself by decorating the flat the way he sees on TV. If at times he recalls Barton's hidden childhood longings it's no one's business but his own. He purchases ridiculous wreaths consisting of gilded pine cones, red berries and dark green leaves and hangs them on the walls. He wraps twinkling holiday lights around pillars and around the tree he orders from the nearest florist. He bakes cookies and even makes confectionery which he displays in red and green and golden bowls. 

He likes the colourful result.

Although he and Thor grew up in luxury none of them have been obsessed over mere … things. Asgard on the whole was not a materialistic realm—but a short human lifespan will do that to you, make you seek affirmation by amassing things. Apparently being mortal changes one's attitude towards possessions. 

Maybe it is laughable how he succumbs to mindless consumerism, a very human pastime and addiction, but anything is better than sitting in the flat and staring at the Manhattan skyline and counting the minutes ticking by. Anything is better than sitting idly and feeling the emptiness in oneself grow, that bleakness that unrequited love brings.

Unrequited love.

With every moment that passes his longing for Barton increases, and his desolation over Barton's absence makes his heart so very heavy. He keeps himself going with the cherished memories of their last encounter. The way Barton looked at him. The way he smiled, the way he touched him. The way they conversed, bantered—the lack of overt hostility. Loki realises of course that he might be deceiving himself but then his excitement over the small changes in Barton's behaviour towards him grips him again.

Loki calls Bruce often and thankfully Bruce gives him a few pills to calm him. He even agrees to stay for dinner and their conversations soothe Loki. He tries to be subtle about it but he mostly speaks about Barton. Bruce asks him a lot of questions about him and Barton, and Loki answers them very carefully, taking care to present Barton in the best light possible. Loki feels relieved when Bruce approves of the decorated flat and says how Barton will like it. 

At the end of the third week, when Loki has called Steve Rogers numerous times, he does wonder if Steve regrets his hastily given permission to call him "anytime, really." The first time Loki dialled his number was when Barton did not return after a week. Rogers was kind, pointing out how some operations turned out to be a bit more complex than initially planned and that Barton was well and alive. 

The second time he had even take some time to chat with Loki, asking him questions about Christmas and what he knew about it so far.

Loki has also called Natasha Romanov several times. When she is on a mission, which is often, the calls go straight to her voicemail, but surprisingly she always calls back just to tell him in a few, clipped words that, no, Barton isn't back in New York yet. She too assures Loki that it's completely fine for him to call her anytime, although her voice sounds a little strained. He can't be sure but she might be rolling her eyes.

Two times he has called Tony Stark, and Stark has been friendly, considering Loki once threw him out of a window.

He mostly calls Bruce, though, because Bruce is always so kind to him. He likes that Bruce is never curt—he asks questions about Loki's days and what he is doing, and what he is watching and what he is eating, and at times it's just nice to sit on Barton's couch and chat as if he doesn't have any other troubles in his life. 

More often than not, though, Bruce is terribly busy.

Finally, _finally_ , Bruce calls him and tells him that Barton is on the way home.

"Thought you'd want to know," he says, a smile in his voice.

Loki is so excited he works out an hour longer in the gym before he sits down to plan the day, and he skips two meals entirely.

 

Usually Barton returns in the late mornings, but by noon there is still no sign of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter. 

Loki calls Rogers. Again.

"Yes, Loki?" Rogers says.

"Good afternoon, Steve," Loki says as coolly as possible, although his palms are sweating. "I was only wonder—"

"I'm sorry…I don't know when Clint will be back," Rogers says, amiably but with a worried undertone. "He's on his way."

"Oh, thank you. I remember Bruce mentioning that Agent Barton might be returning today." The disappointment cuts deep, although he didn't really expect anything else. "Have a nice day, Mr. Rogers."

"Loki?"

"Yes, Mr. Rogers."

"Are you…are you alright?"

"I am fine," Loki lies, lacing false cheer into the tone of his voice.

_Am I?_

"Okay," Rogers says after a while. "Okay. You have a nice day too."

Loki is relieved that the conversation is over. 

He glances at the clock on his phone.

One thirty-five.

He makes another round, then starts up the computer and begins to browse the internet, first aimlessly, then with a bit more focus when he gets the idea to cook something. He jots down foods that Barton likes and hunts for recipes, which entertains him for another hour, then places the order for food items.

They arrive within half an hour, brought to him by a grumbling S.H.I.E.L.D agent. Loki takes the bag of groceries and doesn't forget to thank the man politely and apologize for the inconvenience the way Barton has taught him to.

He smiles at him. The man straightens up, staring intensely at Loki. Loki tries to remember if he's nearing his heat but no, it's still at least ten days away. His heat seems to influence even complete strangers' attitudes toward him—mostly they take a liking to him, but Loki is never happy about it. Barton has noticed it too and it unsettles him, and everything that unsettles Barton puts Loki in a state of near panic. 

The man takes the bag of groceries into the kitchen.

"Thank you," Loki says quietly.

"You're welcome, call me anytime you need anything, Mr. Loki," the agent says, scribbling his mobile phone number onto his business card and leaving it on the counter. Loki only widens his eyes and smiles at him, his usual response now when people behave in ways he can't explain. 

The agent's face breaks out in a smile and his cheeks flush pink. 

"Anytime," he repeats, then leaves—almost in a hesitant manner, turning around at the elevator and giving him a little wave. Loki waves back, then takes the card and stores it with the other cards he has received from other friendly strangers. 

At three o'clock in the afternoon, when the food is in the oven and on the stove, he can no longer keep himself from making another call.

He called Rogers already, so he decides to call Bruce.

"Loki," Bruce says in his comforting doctor voice. 

Loki bites the insides of his cheeks.

"Good evening, Bruce," he says, forcing a smile onto his face. "I was wondering if you know more about Barton's return? It seems he has been delayed. Do you know anything about his new ETA?"

There is a long, uncomfortable pause, and Loki feels his heart beating frantically. 

"Bruce?"

Bruce sighs. "I…I am not sure where he is, but he's okay. Don't worry. He'll be back eventually."

"Is he in New York?"

"Yes," Bruce says hesitantly. "He is in New York but he's having a bite to eat somewhere and…ah…."

"And?" Loki hates himself for needing to know, but he can't stop himself asking either. 

Another pause.

"Listen"—Bruce's voice sounds louder, as if he has moved closer to the speaker—"don't wait up for him. He might have a few drinks."

"I see," Loki says slowly, his heart heavy. "Thank you."

He continues to cook nonetheless. When the food is finished he puts it on a wooden board on the kitchen counter and sits on the couch to watch TV. He flicks through the news channels, then settles on a daily soap. He tells himself he's watching it to study the humans and their behavior. It's on everyday, at the same time, on the same channel, with the same faces, and he likes the comfort of that. 

For a few cherished minutes Candice, a doctor in a busy hospital fighting her passion for Juan, the surgeon with a perfect masculine jaw and piercing blue eyes, distracts him from Barton's absence.

"Come on, Candice," he mutters, putting on an American accent, "don't be a fool, he loves you!"

Alas, Candice falls for the blond smarmy lawyer who is—unbeknownst to her—married.

"Candice, no!" Loki calls out when she agrees to meet the new beau in his enormous villa at a nameless beach.

On another level he is aware that he, a former god, is sitting in an apartment in front of a screen, letting himself be numbed by artificial people and artificial lives. 

Finally the show ends on a cliffhanger. Loki smoothes the pillow he has been holding and gets up to stand at the window, pressing his palms against the cold glass.

Outside the dusk has already darkened the sky. The sky is a pale orange turning into an indigo hue. He waits in the growing dark, just looking out of the window.

Long after midnight he finally takes one of the pills Bruce has given him for sleepless nights. Technically they're to take the edge off his heat, but Loki has begun to take them outside his heats as well. He likes how they pull him under like soft-handed ghosts into black water.

He calls Tony Stark the next morning. (Steve Rogers' apologetic voicemail tells him he's away and he doesn't dare to call Natasha again. He isn't that concerned about Stark's opinion.) Stark picks up, mumbling sleepily, then asks him to come to his floor. 

Loki makes coffee, puts some of the food he painstakingly cooked into a few containers, and takes the elevator up. He looks at himself in the mirrored doors—the thin, charcoal grey t-shirt emphasises his hips, the black rubberised mini denim skirt cling to his thighs like a second skin. He is wearing a pair of black, high-heeled ankle boots. Barton loves those.

Stark is bewildered but also seduced by the fresh coffee and gobbles the food up, eating directly from one of the containers. 

"Clint should be in New York by now, but I have no idea what time he's going to be back in the tower," Stark says, chewing. "I heard he's kind of gone off the grid a bit. Obviously S.H.I.E.L.D. would know about his whereabouts, but at the moment our relationship is a little strained with them so we can't call them and ask."

Loki knows that S.H.I.E.L.D.—or more accurately Fury—hates to have lost control over him since they were relegated to nannies and caregivers by the Avengers, but he had not realized how deep the rift is. He wonders how this affects Barton and Natasha, who are both very much still S.H.I.E.L.D employees. 

"This is amazing," says Stark, lifting the half-empty food container. Loki smiles despite himself.

Stark shows him the common floor, which turns out to be the same room in which the Hulk had thrown him against the wall. The wall has deliberately not been repaired, and Stark has hung several heavy, gilded frames around the dents in the wall, next to onyx plates inscribed with "Hulk Came, Saw and Smashed!"

"Hilarious," Loki says drily upon seeing them.

"Come on, you must admit you brought it upon yourself," Stark says in his flippant manner, wordlessly offering him a drink. 

"Tell you what"—Stark pours himself a greenish, thick drink. "Actually you should be able to come down here without having to get clearance. Come by whenever you feel like it. It's ridiculous—you're human now, and very much killeable, whereas we're the Avengers and we already defeated you—when you were still a god who weighed over 500 pounds. Now that you're weighing…less than 200 pounds, we shouldn't start getting too paranoid. Also, your magic is gone too, even less reason for all this security theater."

His movements are quick, nervous, but by now Loki knows it's not because he is scared. Stark always moves with this restlessness because he simply can't sit still. Had he known that earlier, he might not have underestimated Stark and failed to kill him. But no use crying over spilled milk, as the humans like to say.

"I appreciate it, Mr. Stark," he says.

"Tony," Stark corrects him. "I already call you Loki and not Mr. Laufeyson."

Loki's and Tony's phones go off at the same time with texts from Natasha, who announces she is back in the tower.

"Come by, Loki is here too! We can watch Adventure Time together," Tony texts back.

Apart from the reminder of Loki's defeat, Tony does not mention Loki's attempt to take over the world. He is still curious, looks at him when he thinks Loki isn't looking, asks him ridiculously detailed questions, but restrains himself. Loki finds that interesting. 

"You need to eat more of your own amazing cooking," Tony says. "You're pretty thin."

Loki deliberately overlooks the worried or critical tone and just notes the words, sits a little straighter. Barton will be pleased.

Just as Natasha enters, Bruce calls Loki.

"I think Clint is on the way to the tower," he says, and the frantic beating of Loki's heart is suddenly the only thing Loki can hear. 

"You might as well just stay here—he'll arrive on the heli pad," Tony tells Loki. 

Natasha's face is strangely blank when she turns to give Tony a look.

"What?" asks Tony.

"Nothing," Natasha says, then turns to Loki. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to. Our reunions are pretty boring."

"Boring?" Tony repeats, aghast. "That was not what you said the last time when Bruce and I danced for you dressed only in miniskirts and high heels!"

Natasha shrugs, then devotes her attention to her phone.

"Bruce didn't. You were so drunk you thought your own reflection was Bruce."

Tony's phone goes off. "Ah, that's Steve, he's coming up to say hi to Clint."

Natasha doesn't react, just types into her phone.

"Awesome," Tony says, "the whole team united at last."

At that, Natasha looks up from her phone, about to say something, but Bruce and Steve arrive, engaged in a heated debate.

"These kids were not even eighteen," says Bruce.

"They stole a $500,000 military weapon, hid it at their grandma's house in New Jersey and tried to sell it on eBay," Steve says. "I'm sorry but they need to be protected from their own stupidity."

"I think ripping off the roof of their house taught them their lesson."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. covered the repairs, even though the roof was insured, and I paid for the grandma's stay at the Wilshire so she could even take her four cats."

"Okay," Tony interjects cheerfully, "it's only eleven o'clock in the morning and it seems everyone's already had a great day."

"Define 'great,'" Natasha says, still typing into her phone. "I had to break into a facility because someone had a 'hunch' that Victor von Doom is in Brooklyn."

"And?" Steve, Bruce and Tony are interested.

Natasha shrugs. "False alarm."

Bruce and Steve both greet Loki in a cheerful manner. Loki still can't tell if they are genuine or not. Maybe it just seems that way because he wants them to like him. Bruce asks him about his day and Loki is a little embarrassed that he'd only planned on baking while the Avengers have already found military weapons and broke into facilities. 

He is about to give an evasive reply when the sound of a helicopter drowns out the conversation. 

For a moment Loki cannot hear or see anything else, just the black metal helicopter floating in the sky. 

For the thousandth time he remembers Barton's hands lacing the corset. It has become a tactile memory, a ghost touch pressed into his skin. During the last few weeks these memories have carried him through, fueling fantasies that have become increasingly romantic and…emotionally embellished. In the long lonely nights alone in the flat he has not been able to distinguish wishful thinking and dreams from real memories, but suddenly he realizes just how much of his romantic daydreams have become false memories.

"Are you okay?" Tony asks, taking in his wide eyes.

"I am just nervous," Loki replies automatically. 

(He recalls the way Barton had looked at him, the way Barton had said, "You're going to be the ruin of me." He reminds himself how wounded Barton sounded and raw but also _so full of heart_.)

He can see Barton moving down the stairs, but his usual fast, slightly impatient movements are missing. Instead he walks somewhat haltingly, as if every step is a new struggle for balance. Uncharacteristically, his left arm is braced on the concrete wall, steadying him. From the corner of his eye Loki sees Steve draw his eyebrows together in confusion. 

As Barton enters the apartment, it becomes evident that the familiar stocky build, thick arms, cocky swagger, and confident grin are gone. His sleeveless leather top and black pants are hanging off a gaunt, dirty frame. He is lean to the point of being emaciated.

Loki inhales slowly in shock.

Barton's skin is pulled tight over his cheekbones, his veins prominent. Under his dark suntan his face seems pallid, grey with exhaustion. His eyes look haunted. 

Loki can see Steve and Bruce frown, then look at each other. Natasha's and Tony's faces betray less, but their eyes move over Barton's face.

Barton stops in the middle of the living room.

"Hey, guys! What's up?" he says, then breaks out in a huge grin, and after a moment everyone moves in to hug him. Natasha is a little hesitant, and Barton notices but pretends not to; he pulls her in, holds her tight.

"Long time no see!" Tony greets him, patting his back.

"Is that all dirt or are you actually tanned?" asks Bruce, and Barton laughs.

"Vietnam," Barton just says.

"It's really good to see you again, son!" Steve shakes his hand and bestows a boyish grin on Barton.

"Thanks, Dad," Barton jokes back.

Barton sees Loki and his grin vanishes from his face. Just as he is about to open his mouth to say something, two tall, slender women enter Tony's pad. 

"Oh, hi!" The red-haired one waves cheerily. Her friend, a platinum blonde girl, waves too. They both seem drunk and wobble on sky-high platform high heels, wearing almost identical micro mini skirts. 

Tony waves back.

"These are my very special friends, Anna"—Barton points at the red-haired woman—"and Veruschka!" 

Veruschka nearly falls over, but Barton grabs her wrist and hauls her up again.

"Oops," he says, "no more vodka for you, lady."

"Fuck you, I'll have a gin tonic, then," Veruschka laughs.

Barton's phone goes off and he pulls it out of his jeans pocket.

"Hang on," he says, "I got a text from…" He looks at Natasha. "…from you!"

Natasha rolls her eyes.

Barton reads the text, frowning, then asks Natasha, "Do you want me to text you back?"

Natasha only rolls her eyes harder.

"So how do you know Clint?" Steve attempts a conversation with Barton's "friends."

"We met at a party," Barton says. His voice is too loud. He appears drunk. Loki notices how his eyes seem unfocussed, the pupils unnaturally small, like tiny black dots in huge crystal grey irises. "And the ladies wanted to see where I live so…here we are!" 

He slaps Anna on her bum and she shows him her middle finger.

"So, where does a girl get a drink here?" she asks.

"Loki," Barton says without looking at him, "two gin and tonics."

"Whoa," Natasha says coldly, "Loki is not your fucking bartender."

"It's all right, Natasha," Loki says quietly. 

"Oh, we're on a first-name basis here now?" Barton bites out.

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. 

"Fuck you," she tells Barton, then gets up and leaves.

In the ensuing awkward silence Loki walks behind Tony's bar. "May I?" 

"What?" Tony startles, still staring at Barton.

"May I use your bar?"

"It shouldn't be your job to pour drinks for Clint," Tony says.

"Please, Mr. Stark," Loki mutters under his breath.

After a moment Tony nods helplessly, then walks closer to Barton, looking at him with his eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck has gotten into you?" he asks, his voice dangerously low and soft.

Barton just grins.

"So, are you a butler or not?" Anna asks Loki, who is already mixing the drinks.

"Something like that," Loki says. His lips twitch.

She is beautiful, exactly Barton's type. She has wide green doe eyes and high, narrow cheek bones. 

He hands her two tall drink glasses. She peers curiously at him.

"Thank you," she says politely.

Veruschka takes her drink and toasts Loki, and Loki inclines his head politely.

"All right, excuse us, we're fucking tired and need our beauty sleep," Barton announces. His voice is too loud, too booming. He is grinning again, and there is a light, greyish sheen of sweat on his face. 

Anna and Veruschka both only look at each other, then follow Barton who is heading to the elevator.

After they're gone, Tony just says slowly, "What the actual fuck was that?"

Bruce and Steve are both, it seems, as speechless as Tony was before.

Loki feels cold.

He feels like a fool in his pretty clothes and high heels, the make-up he is wearing. 

"When did Clint turn into a full-on douchebag?" Tony says, and Loki realises that he has said that for Loki's sake. He is telling Loki he is on his side.

 _I can't become the reason for alienating Barton from his friends,_ Loki. _It will make him loathe me more._

"Hey, care for a drink with us?" Tony asks him.

Loki thinks of Barton fucking the two women in the flat. If only he could feel jealousy or hatred or anger. Something sharp and clear-cut and identifiable. He once thought that the curse of being human was mortality, that the expiry date on his life was his punishment, but it turns out he was wrong all this time. It's this cursed pain, the agony of love that is the real punishment.

Tony doesn't wait for him to accept and just pours him a clear drink. Loki takes it with numb hands, then downs it with a stiff movement, realizing too late how he must look: like a sad alcoholic. He rubs his lips with his knuckles, then sets the empty glass down. Steve, who doesn't drink, leans with his back against the bar, looking lost in thought. Bruce sips his drink. Tony plays with the glass between his fingers.

"Thank you," Loki says, watching them, and they startle. And he feels grateful. Maybe Bruce, Steve and Tony are not his friends—they don't have any reason to be—but he can't help noticing they treat him better than Thor's friends ever did.

"For being kind to me," Loki clarifies, smiling at Bruce's and Steve's clueless faces.

Tony pours himself another drink. "I knew that whole scepter business was fucked up, but now I can see clearly how fucked up it is," he says softly, more to himself than to anyone else.

"What would happen if you were to leave? Hypothetically," Steve asks all of a sudden. "I mean, Clint leaves you all the time and seems to be okay with it."

Banner laughs humorlessly.

"It all comes down to the scepter. We don't even know precisely what Clint wished for. _He_ doesn't even know what he wished for—only that his desire to see Loki brought low and made dependent on him was so strong that the spell just fulfilled the desire. That is why Loki is bound to Clint, but Clint is not bound to Loki."

"I wish you would not discuss these things in my presence," Loki murmurs. He is uncomfortable with the men obviously plotting to take him away from Clint. He belongs to Clint. In the end, no matter how painful this bond is, he belongs to Clint, until the end of days. They don't understand.

This is being human, Loki thinks. It's the terrible finality of love, taking away even the ability to feel hate, hollowing out the place where his heart was. He wants to die, to be done with it, with life, with this pain, but even if he could, he would only do it if Clint allowed him to go.

All his tentative hope, all for nothing. 

"There must be a way to dissolve it," Tony almost wheedles. His eyes look dark. He is _worried_. The man whom Loki attempted to murder is worried about him. It's a laughable irony, but it adds to his pain.

"Can you move into a flat of your own?" Tony asks. "If I, say, let you move into one directly beside Clint's flat. Technically is that not…close…enough?"

"You don't understand," Bruce says sharply. "If Clint allows it, Loki can move to the North pole if he wants to, without any distress or pain—but if Clint wants, Loki cannot even go to the bathroom without his permission."

Tony groans and buries his head in his hands.

"I…I don't want to be away from Clint," Loki says. A wave of panic washes over him, threatening to pull him under.

At these words Tony looks up and studies Loki's face.

"Of course," he mumbles, "of course you wouldn't want to."

 

After an hour, just as Loki wins a Mario Kart race for the first time, Tony's girlfriend Pepper Potts arrives. 

She is barefoot, holding her high heels in one hand and a large bag with various printouts in her other. If she is bewildered by the banished God of Mischief playing Mario Kart between Bruce and Steve on Tony's couch while the master of the house mixes a round of drinks for all, she doesn't show it.

"Oh, hi," is all she says, then looks at Tony. "I'm Pepper," she says to Loki. She is polite, but not cold. 

"Loki," he replies, standing and shaking her outstretched hand.

He knows they are both contemplating the absurdity of shaking hands like business partners or normal acquaintances.

"I have heard a lot about you," she says.

"And I about you," he says after a pause. He had expected more hostility.

"I hope you're not here to defenestrate one of us?" she asks.

Loki inclines his head.

"Even if I wanted to, I lack the ability to do so," he says.

"Where is Clint?" she asks. "Was he not supposed to come home today?" Tony pushes a drink into her hands. Ice cubes clink softly when she takes a sip.

"Agent Barton is not here," Tony says. Pepper tilts her head, looking at Tony, and Tony minutely shakes his head. Loki is not supposed to see it but he does. Pepper seems to understand whatever Tony has non-verbally conveyed and does not ask further questions about Clint.

"Hi Pepper, how was your meeting today?" Bruce asks while shooting off green turtle shells at Steve.

"It was good, but I'm completely exhausted now," Pepper replies. She sits down beside Steve and puts her feet up on the coffee table.

Bruce and Steve nudge Loki to continue playing with them, so he does. He likes the distraction of the bright colors. 

"Not bad," Pepper comments. She reaches over to press a button on Steve's controller and something dislodges from his vehicle, which hits Bruce and disables him while Steve whizzes past.

"Did you just shoot a blue shell at me?" Bruce looks with disbelief at the screen.

In the next thirty minutes Loki understands that peace is being made—not in so many words or gestures, but just by sitting together on a couch and playing a console game. He is grateful, although humans are still puzzling to him. (He is honest enough to admit to himself that their forgiveness means something to him.

)

Later, when Bruce wants to order food, Loki automatically offers to cook. When the others hesitate he takes it for mistrust:

"Jarvis would know if I tried to harm you and prevent it."

Their unease and the looks of open shock on their faces are confusing to Loki. Pepper is the first one who speaks. With an easy, practiced smile she takes Loki's arm.

"Or how about we all cook together," she says brightly. "Do you always do the cooking for Clint?"

Vaguely, Loki understands that answering this question in the affirmative would make Clint look bad in her eyes for some reason, so he just says, "Agent Barton's cooking leaves a lot to desired, so I'd rather feed myself."

"But you also feed him too." Pepper's voice is friendly.

"Sometimes," Loki admits, feeling nervous.

As they are all standing together in Tony's kitchen, Loki comes to understand they believe Agent Barton is forcing him. God, how stupid he is.

"Agent Barton has never asked me to do any work," he says emphatically. "He has never asked me to cook or wash his laundry or clean his quarters. I—you should know that."

The silence following his unwarranted statement is even stranger.

Finally Pepper reaches over the counter and puts her hand on Loki's arm.

"I wasn't suggesting that. I was a bit surprised you know your way so well around a kitchen." 

(But Loki can see from underneath his lashes how they exchange worried glances with each other.)

"Oh, he does indeed," Tony says. "I'm thinking of opening a restaurant with Loki as the chef."

As if to frantically disperse the strange atmosphere, everyone begins to chat merrily, and Loki feels a tug on his heart as the banter goes back and forth between them. 

Loki has a hard time identifying the seemingly hostile verbal bullets between Steve and Tony as the affectionate teasing it really is. He takes his cues from the laughter and the grins, from Steve's relaxed shoulders, from Tony's open posture.

 _Maybe one day I can have this,_ he catches himself thinking.

(He can never have this. Ever.)

Someone brings up Loki's cooking, and he can't help being flattered as they fall all over each other praising his skills, even though Loki is sure they only do so because they can't say anything good about him otherwise. 

He drinks his wine too fast and is embarrassed about it. He feels warmth rise in his cheeks, but he does also feel better. 

(He cannot think of him. He won't.)

The conversation flows. They talk briefly about S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, then about Asgard. Steve shoots him a glance, but Loki busies himself with preparing a sauce in a blender.

"It's about the certainty that we are not alone," Bruce says. "It changes everything. No aspect of human life is…unaffected by that. Science, philosophy, religion, you name it. We are not alone. We never were. Gods are real and then they aren't. It was all a cosmic misunderstanding. Or a deliberate deception."

"I always knew that." Tony takes a sip and shrugs. "Who of us didn't?"

"Everyone in _this room_ knew," Steve says, "but we are a privileged minority. For many, the universe has been turned upside down by these events. Everything they knew, heaven, hell, God, is proven to be an illusion. They have lost everything. And they don't know yet if they have gained anything."

"But what has changed, really?" Loki hears himself asking.

Steve and Bruce turn towards him. Loki registers Tony and Peppers holding hands from the corner of his eye, and it shouldn't cut him so, shouldn't hurt him so. 

"People still go on with the same lives they were living before," he says, wondering about the bitterness creeping into his voice. He didn't realize it had bubbled to the surface. He was so good at hiding.

(He knows. He wants his voice to be louder than the pain that is constantly bleeding him dry since Barton walked out of here without so much as looking at him.)

"So they believe, they hope, then they have their beliefs shattered, have their hopes shattered," he says. "So the sky is not as lonely a place as they had thought it to be. So there are gods and aliens. Who is really surprised? Humans held onto their myths all along. They clung to their fairy tales. They told each other about ancient kingdoms and demons and angels, about monsters and beasts and elves and dwarves. In their hearts they always felt what they now know to be true. The only thing they have lost is their uncertainty."

He looks and sees Bruce and Steve staring at him, both with an unreadable expression in their eyes. Tony silently lifts Pepper's fingers to his lips and kisses them, and Loki suddenly knows that to Tony this is all that matters. And that he has this in his life, this one love that will survive everything else in his possession. For him this love is not an elusive, torturous dream, it is…his truth and his religion. Tony gains strength from this love.

"So what if you know that the Bifrost is real? If you know where Jotunheimr is, how frost giants look? We will still die, tomorrow or in fifty years, or in hundred. We will still die alone, deserted by the gods."

Then Loki exhales slowly, closing his eyes, and shakes his head.

"We are aware of the cold, hard truths out there, but what do they matter in the end? We can't stop believing. Maybe it's…a human condition. Maybe we are made to believe, to hold out hope, no matter the facts and circumstances. No matter how dire the facts, we will continue in our stupid hopes."

He feels a tear rolling down his cheek and wipes it away, annoyed.

"I am sorry," he says.

"Hey," Steve reaches over the table for his hand. 

"I think…I think I realized today that I have to find a way to live with…how things are," he says, staring at the table. "I have to face the truth. I have to stop believing in lost causes."

"Oh Loki," Bruce says softly, "I am so sorry."

Loki shakes his head.

"Please," he laughs, "I'm already sorry enough for myself."

He pushes himself off the counter.

"This was very nice," he says. "I appreciate your forgiveness. It is one thing to shake my hand. It is another to sit on that couch with me and play games with me and let me win—yes, I saw you let me win, Steve—and to cook and eat with me and treat me as if I was always your friend and never the murderer who attempted to eradicate all of you. You are very…brave. And…maybe I am not."

"Loki," Tony says, "I'll get rid of the wall plates and have that damn wall repaired, okay?"

"Just shut up," Steve says, looking at Loki.

"Stay here with us," Pepper says. "You don't have to be up there with Clint. Right?"

She looks around into the faces of the others, who avert their eyes. 

"I don't think he can," Bruce says softly. "It's a bit complicated."

"I don't understand," Pepper says. "We can't let you be mistreated by Clint. We can't just let this happen!"

Loki smiles bitterly.

"I am bound to Agent Barton. He, in return, is not. Or at least not as strongly as I am to him."

In the mirror hanging behind Tony, he can see his own reflection, the pale face and the blue eyes.

"He can't bear to look at them…my eyes," he says. "And after all that has happened, who am I to blame him?"

"This cannot be about punishment," Pepper says again, an angry tone in her voice. "This is…outrageous. Clint has no right to _hurt_ you." She turns to Bruce, Steve and Tony. "What is going on here?"

Loki finds himself touched by Pepper's anger. She doesn't have any reason to become angry on his behalf. Gently he touches her hand.

"It hurts," he says quietly, "it hurts not to be loved back by someone you love. But it hurts even more to be separated from him. His indifference might pain me, but I cannot…be separated from him by my own volition." It is a strange relief to voice these things. This is his reality, for the first time articulated in his own words, spoken out loud.

"This is not right," Pepper says.

Loki smiles at her.

"I don't know about that," he says, pressing her warm, dry hand. "But thank you."

He turns around and walks to the elevator. The doors open automatically.

"Good evening, Loki," Jarvis says.

Surprised, Loki looks up, although technically Jarvis is not in the ceiling.

"Good evening, Jarvis," he says carefully.

"Where would you like to go?"

Even Jarvis, who has never spoken to him before, seems to offer him an escape. He smiles.

"To Agent Barton's quarters, please," he says.

He waves goodbye to the Avengers, who wave solemnly back.

When the doors shut, Loki closes his eyes and exhales. He presses his hand against his chest. The pain feels so real, he is slightly astonished he is not bleeding.

 

When he enters the apartment, he stumbles over the shoes and clothes of one of the girls. Loud music is blaring from the speakers. The place looks as if a bomb exploded, clothes, boots, belts strewn everywhere. 

Strangely enough, Barton's duffel bag with his weapons is on the living room table, half-opened, crossbow peeking out. Barton _never_ does that. He usually immediately stows his bag in his study, cleaning and tending his weapons before locking them away.

Loki can hear voices, moaning and gasping.

Barton and Anna are on the couch, fucking. She is sitting on his lap, naked, her sweaty breasts bouncing up and down. Barton is thrusting upwards, holding her hips, his head lolled back. 

"Loki," he says when he sees Loki, then beckons him closer. "Mix us more drinks," he says. 

Anna stops moving and tries to get off Barton, but Barton slaps her hip.

"Hey, didn't say you could stop, sweetie," he says.

Loki goes to the kitchen, automatically gathering up debris and cleaning up as he goes. He takes the vodka, lime juice and soda out of the fridge and mixes the drinks, then takes them to the living room. 

He wants to pass Barton the drinks from behind the sofa so he can just turn around and go to his room, but no such luck. Barton gestures for him to come around, gestures him closer so that Loki stands right before him, looking down on Anna's sweaty back. 

"Gimme that drink," Barton mumbles. His eyes are strangely bright in the semi-darkness of the living room. 

Loki obliges him. 

He steps so close that his shins are grazing Barton's naked knees. He can see Anna's long neck, her elegant spine, moving up and down. Barton slides his left hand over her flanks, tugs at her hair so her head falls back and she looks up at Loki. 

Loki can see with once glance that Anna is high. Despite the near darkness her pupils are pinprick small. She looks through Loki, still moving, her lips parted. Her eyes stare blankly through him, then fall shut.

"Give her the drink," Barton growls.

Loki puts the cold drink into Anna's hand. Her eyes open and she takes a sip, her hand shaking. Barton takes the drink off her and presses the cool glass against her face, her throat, her breasts. 

She moans quietly, laughs. 

Wordlessly Barton gestures to Loki to take the glass again. When Loki takes the glass, Barton's hand wanders down Anna's stomach, between her legs, and pushes and rubs. Anna's moans become louder, more urgent.

Loki steps back and waits for Barton to dismiss him. Barton lifts Anna up so Loki can glimpse Barton's cock, glistening with her juices. 

He looks away, his face wet with tears, he didn’t know he shed..

With a shudder, Barton comes. He continues massaging her clit with his palm and soon she arches and comes too. 

She collapses on top of him.

"Lay her on the couch," Barton orders, just sitting there.

Loki takes the limp Anna and gently lifts her off Barton, then lays her down. She mumbles, "Clint?" Then her head lolls to the side.

Barton watches him. Loki doesn't want to look at him (he might scream if he has to look Barton in the eyes), so he keeps focused on Anna. 

He covers Anna's body with a blanket. Before he can stand up again, Barton says, "Take off the condom." 

Barton points at his softening cock, at the condom filled with his come.

Loki is too drained to feel anything. The only thing he feels is this soft, strange sadness. It fills so much of him, he can't imagine ever feeling anything else. 

Loki kneels between Barton's legs and works the condom off, careful not to spill Barton's come onto the carpet. 

He stares into Barton's eyes, daring him to order him to avert his eyes, but Barton doesn't say anything, only staring back at Loki.

Loki has seen Barton drunk, sometimes mildly high, but never this way. With his tiny pupils he looks like a stranger.

He ties the condom up. He can smell Anna, rubber and semen on his fingers.

"May I leave?" he asks finally, when Barton doesn't say anything.

"You may," Barton drawls. "Get out of my sight. Go hide your face in your room. Watch your pathetic cooking shows and TV soaps."

He laughs at Loki's expression.

"What, you thought I didn't know?"

Loki does know, of course, that he is still being monitored, but he was not aware that Barton would even care enough to know.

He flees. He deposits the condom into the garbage bin in the kitchen, then washes his hands.

As he is going to his room he hears Barton calling for Veruschka.

Once he is in his room he is indeed tempted to switch on the TV, if only to drown out the sound of Barton fucking. In the end he locks himself in the bathroom, sits naked in the shower and turns on the water. Under the water he finally sobs, his fist pressed to his mouth. Once he begins, he cannot stop. He slides down the wall, gasping with the pain clawing in his chest.

He is such a child, such a pathetic creature, a voice in his head mocks him. He turns up the water, trying to drown out not only the noises from the living room but also the voice in his head. 

He wants to scream himself raw, scream out all the pain and hurt, but finds he cannot. Somehow, somewhere deep in his mind, he still does not want to displease Barton. 

In the early morning hours he finally turns off the water and crawls out, drained and exhausted. He doesn't bother going to bed. Instead he gets dressed and purposefully begins to clean the apartment.

In the living room he silently regards the coffee table.

A mirror, a packet of coke and pills are strewn over the table. Loki puts everything into a little plastic sachet. He wipes down surfaces with wet, soapy cloths, scrubs and polishes. He is aware, on some level, that he is manic. He is not in a normal state of mind, but then again, when is he? 

It's almost five when he starts vacuuming the carpet. He knows that the noise is not loud enough to wake Barton, and now with all the alcohol and drugs in his system, nothing will wake him. When the apartment is spotlessly clean, he takes the elevator to the gym and works out, running almost an hour longer than usual. He needs the sense of achievement, the feeling of his heart pumping, the sweat on his flushed skin. He often works himself to exhaustion, but today he doesn't seem to be able to stop running.

An hour later when he returns to the apartment, freshly showered again, Anna is sitting in the living room with a blanket around her, staring at the Manhattan skyline.

"Hey," she says.

"Good morning," Loki greets her. He hadn't expected her to be awake already.

She turns her head to look at him.

"Why do you let him treat you like this?" she asks.

Loki blinks.

"None of your business," he says, then asks politely, "Would you like some coffee?"

"I made some," she says, then lifts a mug from the coffee table.

"Breakfast, then?" Loki offers. 

Anna shakes her head. "After the last few days with this crazy guy I won't be hungry for a week."

"After yesterday night, food will do you good."

She takes a swig from her coffee, then inspects her nails.

"I'm sorry, you know. I can see this is some sort of fucked-up situation here."

Loki isn't sure how to respond to this, so he goes into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Anna follows him, blanket around her thin frame, coffee mug in her hand.

"Sorry if I'm saying strange things. I think I'm still high. I just meant I'm not an asshole. I—"

"You're an escort," Loki tells her. "You and your friend are hired to be here and do what you are doing. There is no need to apologize. You are simply doing your job" —he smiles, aware that his smile is a lifeless grimace—"as I am doing mine."

Anna shrugs. For someone so young she looks as if she is carrying the weight of the world, he thinks.

"But," Anna says, "you are desperately in love with him."

Loki smiles sadly.

Anna falls silent, nursing her cup of coffee.

"I'm sorry," she says again after a while.

Before Loki can tell her to stop apologizing, she raises a hand.

"I don't know much about people, but you're fucking heartbroken, and I can see whenever you look at Mr. Crazy Guy he is doing the heartbreaking. I know from personal experience that telling you shit like 'He's not worth it' isn't going to change anything…but he's not worth it."

She means well. There are always people who mean well. Loki just isn't sure if this is a comforting thought or not.

His laugh, which was meant to be placating, sounds brittle in his own ears. He absentmindedly begins to cut up vegetables, just so he can keep his hands busy and his eyes averted.

"You don't know anything about me," he says.

"I know enough," Anna replies. "I've lived, I know stuff. Don't tell me I'm too young." She twirls a lock of hair around her fingers and manages to look simultaneously too young and too old.

Loki looks up and their eyes meet in a moment of clear understanding. He longs to tell her the truth. He longs to tell her how he deserves all of this—this messed-up misery and much more—but finds he can't part from the comfort her sympathy provides. Someone who cares.

Finally Loki looks at his slices of tomatoes again.

"You shouldn't know what pain is," he murmurs.

"Yeah, tough luck," Anna shrugs. "Some girls are born in nice, pretty houses and have rich parents and good schools and great summer vacations and always the newest clothes. And all the others don't."

"You're young now," Loki tells her, "but your life is so short, so brief. Don't waste it on this."

"Speak for yourself," Anna snaps, a sullen expression on her face, but almost immediately she softens. "Hey, it's not too bad. I'm not like a _Pretty Woman_ cliche or something. I work for a modeling agency. And I'm studying."

Just as Loki is about to ask what Anna is studying, they hear the door to Barton's bedroom opening, then a mass of reddish curls peeks into the kitchen.

"I smell coffee," says a voice out of the mass of hair.

"Hey, Luke is making us breakfast," Anna says.

Loki doesn't correct Anna. 

Veruschka stumbles into the kitchen, groaning and clutching her head.

"I've always dreamed of seeing the inside of Stark Tower, and now I'm too hungover and fucked up to appreciate it," she says.

Loki fries eggs, toasts bread, pours coffee. He feels strangely fatherly with these two too-young girls sitting at the kitchen counter. Without make-up he can see how young they really are, barely over twenty.

"Thanks, Luke!" Veruschka stuffs herself with toast and eggs. "Wow, you're not only incredibly beautiful but also a great cook. What a catch!"

"Except for that you're not into the ladies, obviously," Anna says with mock regret in her voice.

"Well, yeah, life's a bitch." Veruschka pours herself more coffee, obviously not too concerned as she is engrossed in her toast.

"You should model," Anna says, pointing her finger at him, "you totally should. Or act or whatever. You have no idea how pretty you are. Perfect!"

Loki snorts. "If you want more pancakes you just have to ask."

He likes their laughter tinkling in the empty apartment. He likes their easy friendship, their smiles. The god Loki would never have admitted to being lonely, but the human can.

He is lonely. And all these interactions in the past few days with Steve and Natasha and Bruce and Tony and now with these two girls drive this fact home, again and again.

He doesn't talk much, just leans back, watching the two girls joke with each other.

He will never really have this. He is trapped in human skin but he will never know these things. He'll be a guest in other people's lives but the wall between him and them will always be intact.

When he still had thousands of years, possibly eternity to look forward to, he had never missed this. It would not have occurred to him. (Loki has lost the connection with his memories. He still remembers—remembers the golden summers of Asgard, the wild hunts in autumn, the winterfests, but he has forgotten how it all had actually felt. He sees images of a life lived by a stranger.) 

He still is alone here. He will die alone.

"Hey, what's your phone number?"

"What?" Loki shakes himself out of his melancholic thoughts. Veruschka pats her jean pockets, then swears, "Shit, we had to leave our phones at reception."

"We've gotta go, but here's my number"—Anna scribbles it onto a piece of a paper—"just in case you need a place to come to. You can always come to us. When we're not there just say you're a friend of—" She glances at Veruschka, who nods, then in a lower tone—"Tina and Mandy. Our real names, okay?"

She presses the folded paper into his hand. 

"And yeah, in case you just wanna hang out."

They gather up the rest of their clothes and hug him. The last thing Loki sees are them standing at the back of the elevator, waving goodbye, then they're gone. 

 

Loki resumes his cleaning of the apartment.

When he returns to the room with an empty bin in his hand, Barton is sitting in the armchair beside the bed.

Slowly Loki puts the basket down. 

As he turns to leave, Barton says, "Loki."

Barton is in a dangerous mood. The bitter lines around his lips, the narrowed gaze, the white knuckles. Loki knows the signs. He wonders if they will go out tonight, with Barton organizing an especially vicious fucking for Loki.

"Are they gone?" Barton asks.

Loki nods silently.

Barton's gaze is unsettling. In the light of the grey morning his irises are an opaque grey, like a glass filled with smoke, his pupils tiny black dots. 

When he doesn't speak for minutes, Loki finally turns around to leave the room.

"What's in your box?" Barton asks in a low voice.

Loki slowly turns back again. He can feel a chill creep up his spine.

"Wh—Excuse me?" His voice nearly fails him.

"You heard me," Barton says coldly. "You have a box under your bed. What is in it?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. knows. They would have confiscated the contents if they endangered anyone," Loki says slowly. "I thought they would have let you know."

"Tell me what is in this box," Barton orders.

Loki feels a wave of desolation and nausea wash over him as he resists the order. He gasps, holding onto the door frame.

"You have obeyed far worse orders, but you waste your strength resisting this one?" Barton observes. His initial malice has turned into curiosity.

Loki presses the back of his hand over his mouth, then shakes his head.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. knows. Jarvis knows," he manages to grit out. "The content is neither dangerous…nor important."

Barton looks at him incredulously then snorts, half in disbelief, half in amusement.

"You never cease to amaze me," Barton says finally.

Loki prays fervently that Barton doesn't simply order him to open the box, but he just falls silent again, staring blindly into space. After an eternity, Loki inches towards the door again. 

He has seen Barton in various states of inebriation, but this time it's different in an alarming way.

When Loki is almost in the hallway, Barton jerks as if he had fallen asleep.

"Loki," he says, as if surprised to see him, blinking.

"Agent Barton." Loki is worried now. 

Maybe he should call Natasha or Steve or Tony. He realizes he doesn't know what to do. 

Perhaps nothing, just wait until Barton returns to his old self? Maybe he needs to sleep and get whatever he has taken out of his system. Maybe he is just exhausted.

Slowly, slowly he approaches Barton, who stares at him with these unsettling, blank eyes.

"It's you," Barton says. He smiles a lopsided smile. Loki stops, confused, trying to decide what to do.

Barton tilts his head.

"I killed someone. A boy," Barton says.

 _But you have killed so many,_ Loki thinks, even more confused.

"I made a mistake," Barton whispers. He scratches his arm absentmindedly.

"Mistakes happen," Loki offers after a while, but Barton shakes his head impatiently.

"No, not this kind of mistake. This should not have happened."

"You are grieving," Loki says, stepping closer despite the tension coiled in his stomach.

"I don't know. Am I? " Barton blinks, and Loki sees tears on Barton's face.

"What did you do?" 

Barton shakes his head.

"He was nothing special. Just collateral damage."

Then suddenly he ... breaks. His face buried in his hands he seems to shrink into himself.

"I don't understand what is happening to me," he struggles to say. "I let this boy die. He was innocent. There was no need for him to die."

"Agent Barton," Loki breathes. He reaches for Barton but does not touch him. He is not allowed to touch him.

"No," Barton says abruptly, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes, "say my name. I need to hear it."

Loki swallows, then whispers, "Clint."

Clint lets his head fall back.

"His name was Milan," he says softly. "He was in love with a girl named Mira."

Loki nods.

"I'm very sorry," he says. 

"Don't be sorry for me," Clint laughs, "I don't deserve the pity."

He lifts his head again and suddenly reaches for Loki's hand. The touch burns Loki to the core. He looks down at his pale fingers resting in Bart—Clint's hand.

"The gods just kill without a care," Clint says, "they give and take, randomly, huh? Create and destroy."

"There are no gods," Loki says, his voice quiet.

"That's what I always thought." Clint nods solemnly. "Of course. At least you create." Clint traces the soft skin of Loki's wrist with his thumb. "I only destroy. I shoot stuff, mostly people."

"You kill to save lives," Loki says softly.

Clint shakes his head, then laughs again. There is a black bitterness in his voice that scares Loki.

"I made a story up for that kid," he says, "about the mission. I wanted him to feel his death was…for some greater good. You know? Thought he needed to die thinking it all had a purpose…but I forgot the briefing. I had no idea what I was doing. I mean, it's usually enough to remember the targets."

Barton is unraveling, Loki understands. 

"Let me call your friends," Loki says, but Clint only tightens his grip around Loki's fingers and pulls him closer.

"You don't want to tell me these things," Loki tells him. "Tomorrow you'll wake up and regret it. Let me get Natasha. She knows what to do."

Clint says nothing, just rubs his thumb over the soft skin of Loki's wrist.

"Why can't I stop thinking about you?" he says softly.

Loki opens his mouth, then shuts it again. 

"I want it to stop," Clint says, then looks at Loki open palm. "Don't you want it to stop too?"

"All the time," Loki says, before he can stop himself. "Every day I want it to stop."

"Maybe we can," Clint whispers, but he lifts Loki's arm to his lips and presses tiny kisses onto the soft skin of his forearm. 

Loki closes his eyes, unable to pull away his arm. He can feel his entire body responding.

"Agent Barton," he says, hating the quiver in his voice, but Clint pulls him onto his lap, carding his hand through Loki's hair, mouthing kisses onto his collar bone, his throat.

Loki shudders.

"Fuck," says Barton.

He traces Loki's black eyebrows with his thumb, smooths over the high forehead.

"I often wonder if under all this blue, your eyes are still green."

When Loki averts his eyes, Barton lifts his chin with his index finger.

"Fuck," Barton says again, carding his fingers through Loki's hair. "I can't stand how beautiful you are. Every time I look at you, it fucking cuts me." 

Every word Barton says, makes Loki's heart swell and contract. 

"Are you crying?" asks Barton.

Although Loki feels tears rolling down his cheek he slowly shakes his head. He smiles through his tears, so hard his face hurts.

"Good," says Barton, "because gods don't cry, right?"

"Right," Loki whispers.

Barton falls silent but continues to touch Loki, to stroke, caress, kiss every part of Loki's body he can reach. Then he stands up, holding Loki like a doll in his arms, and lays him on the bed. Loki can feel wetness between his legs. His cock is hard. His desire awakens like a beast, clawing at him. His mind wants to succumb to his instincts. 

_I need to warn Agent—Clint._

He arches up into Barton's touch, and instead of moving away, Barton grinds into him. The proximity of his alpha, not only near but _touching_ sends a spasm through him.

Loki can feel Barton's hands on his body. Every touch sends an electric jolt through him. 

"Look at me," Barton demands.

Loki obeys, and he is startled that Barton's eyes are suddenly not grey any longer but golden like honey.

Barton growls, a sound he doesn't seem to produce with his vocal chords. He rips Loki's clothes off him and licks Loki's skin hungrily.

„You're going into heat. I can smell it rising from your skin," Barton’s voice is rough. "I can feel it."

Loki knows it's too late by now, but he presses both of his palms to Barton's chest.

"You must leave, Agent Barton," he whispers. "I wasn't supposed to go into heat, but it…I can’t stop."

(Please don't go.)

"I'm tired of resisting," Barton says, burying his face in the crook of Loki's neck and shoulder. He is inhaling Loki's scent. "I'm tired of fighting," Barton says. As he pulls off Loki to look him in the eyes, there is a softness in his face Loki has never seen before. "I'm tired of all that fucking bullshit."

Loki closes his eyes in an attempt to try to stay in control. He can feel it rapidly slipping, his body singing out in desire and lust. This is what he wanted, and yet—now that Barton is in his arms, he can't help thinking of the consequences.

He nearly laughs. All these months and weeks he spent pining for Barton's touch—and now he is the one trying to fend off Barton.

"Agent Barton," he tries again while arching into Clint—Barton's—caresses and kisses, "you must leave. You will regret it, and you will despise me for not refusing you today."

"I despise you already," Barton murmurs, then bites down on Loki's throat. He reaches down, his blunt fingers stroking Loki's wet, swollen cunt. Loki moans. His body aches for Barton.

 _Don't deny us now,_ everything inside him screams.

Barton slides down and presses his face between Loki's legs.

"Oh god, you taste just as amazing as I imagined," he groans, licking and sucking at Loki's cunt. He feasts on Loki like a starving man, lapping up his juices with a greedy tongue. He grabs Loki's cock and begins to stroke it, using the hot pre-cum oozing out of the tip as lubrication. 

Loki needs to be filled. His omega instincts tell him he needs to be fucked and knotted. 

His thoughts echo Barton's voice. _I don't want to fight._

Barton unzips his trousers and pushes them down to reveal his thick hard cock. Loki is aware that he is panting like an animal, that he has lost control over his body. His legs are spread, and with shaking hands he is spreading his wet cunt lips apart, presenting himself to Barton. 

When Barton slides in, Loki closes his eyes.

It hurts and it feels so good. 

This is where he belongs. He has never belonged anywhere else. This is why he had always felt alone and cold, lost and forlorn: because he was meant to be with him, with his alpha.

He clings to him desperately, for fear that Barton might come to his senses and push him away. 

"This," Barton says, " _this_."

And although he doesn't say anything else, Loki understands.

"Yes," he says against Barton's temple, pressing kisses where he can reach, the damp hair and the stubbled jaw, the soft skin underneath.

"So beautiful," Barton says, and Loki's heart stops for a moment.

He moves again in a faster rhythm, and every time Barton moves, it feels heavenly, painfully perfect. Every time Barton moves his cock seems to hit a spot deep inside him that makes Loki convulse in pleasure.

"Beautiful," Barton says again, and this time, Loki presses his finger onto his lips.

"Please…don't," he chokes out, "I cannot stand it. I cannot bear it. Have mercy."

"Do you want me to show you the mercy you didn't show me?" Barton asks.

Loki is drowning in the golden storm of Barton's eyes. 

"I beg you," he says. "I beg you…not to make me believe. Please."

Barton only pushes harder, and Loki's head falls back. 

"Tell me," Barton demands, "tell me the truth. Do you love me?"

"Please," Loki whispers, "I beg you," but Barton insists. "Tell. Me."

Each word is punctuated with another push, and finally Loki gasps out, "Yes. I love you. I love you with every, every part of me. I drown in my love for you. I exist for you. This damned, cursed love has corroded all of me. I am filled with it. There is nothing left of me but this love for you. Whatever, whoever I used to be is long gone. I am just a vessel to contain this love."

He closes his eyes, unable to bear the look of grim contempt and hateful disdain in Barton's eyes that he has come to expect. 

„Nothing else is real any longer.“

Then Barton kisses him on his lips. 

"I only hate you because I can't stop…loving you," he murmurs. "I can't make it go away. I try so hard, and yet every day when I wake up, I think of you. My dreams are filled with you. Wherever I go I can hear your voice in my head, and I can feel you and I can smell you, and all I want is to bury myself in you."

Loki opens his eyes in surprise, searching Barton's face, waiting. He doesn't dare to breathe.

"I hate you for making me love you. And I…can't stop. Can't undo it. Doesn't matter what I do."

Loki tries to speak, but he finds he can't. 

"I love you, and it kills me," Barton says. "It fucks me up from the inside, like, it cuts everything in me. Nothing else matters. Only you." He holds Loki's face in his hands in a near painful grip. "Maybe I don't deserve to survive this."

"Barton," Loki breathes, because his voice doesn't obey him.

Barton continues to kiss him.

And then suddenly, every "I love you" falls from Loki's lips, flows out of him like a song. He has had this in his heart so long, has held these words for too long, and to speak them, to be finally allowed to tell them to Barton, to open himself to him, is unending sweetness. He cannot stop himself. He laughs and sighs and cries all at once.

"'S all good," Barton says again and again. And, "I love you."

It's as if they can't stop once they've begun. Loki slides his hand over Barton's face, his cheek, cards pale fingers through wiry, dirty-blond hair, holds his neck, his shoulders, clings to his back. They keep each other from drowning. First it's Barton holding Loki afloat, pressing him against himself and embracing him. Then it's Loki who takes Barton in his arms and rocks him, comforting him.

"Feels so good." Barton's voice is strained as Loki twists up to kiss him open-mouthed. 

Most of what they say doesn't make much sense any longer, and yet they understand each word, each moan and each gasp. They steal each others breaths. They melt against each other.

Clint's cock is thickening inside him, and he can feel the knot already forming.

And then they both feel the waves cresting, the light breaking. They are the same, they are one. They are embraced by the same warmth, the same heat.

"Light …" Loki whispers, nonsensically, but Barton only says, "Yes…" and they both know what the other one means, what he is saying. 

In that last, glorious surge they hold each other tight, rock against each other, float upwards into their sky, and both enter that white, blinding light at the same time.

They are there for an eternity. Wave after wave washes over them, carries them out into that open sea. 

"Everywhere you go, I'll go," Barton says, and with his heated face pressed against Barton's damp neck, Loki mumbles, "And I where you go."

Then after the sweetness fades, Loki can feel the knot swell inside him. 

"What…?" Barton freezes, then shifts, and pain shoots through Loki. 

"Hush, don't move," he tells Barton, who tries to pull out but finds he can't. Frowning, he shifts again, and Loki cries out. "You have to wait it out. You are knotting inside me."

Barton thankfully stops moving, and the red-hot spikes of pain simmer down to a dull throb. 

So that is how it feels, Loki thinks. The burning, stretching pain is…manageable, although the internal pressure is nearly unbearable.

"I've never had that before," Barton says, confused. His gaze is unfocussed. "What's happening? Are you all right?"

"It's…natural. It's your knot. You're knotting me. We'll get used to it. It will take a while for the swelling to disappear, perhaps an hour. It is nothing to worry about."

"I didn't really think I could do that," Barton says. "I've read about it. In your files—that it's a possibility." His voice is slurred, and Loki isn't sure if he is just exhausted from being awake for over twenty hours. "Am I…am I some sort of dog?"

Loki can see Barton's eyes falling shut and cradles his head against his chest. 

"It's all good," he whispers.

"If I'm a dog…at least I'm your dog," Barton slurs.

Loki laughs, but then stops immediately. Clint moves again, slowly, and that slow thrust undoes Loki. He shudders and comes again, clawing at the sheets.

A new surge of happiness rushes through him. If he had any doubts about Barton, they are gone now. Barton tied to him in every sense of the word proves how they belong to each other.

Barton is reassured by his words.

And before he truly falls asleep, like a child he huffs, "Woof."

Loki kisses him. 

"Silly dog, sleep now."

Loki himself cannot sleep. Barton's knot feels as if it's pulsing inside him. After a few moments of breathing in and out and shifting, it's easier.

From today on they will have every day together, an eternity. Every day they'll fall asleep together, and every day they'll wake together. 

Suddenly Loki doesn't mind his short, human lifespan any longer. His entire being is filled with happiness. If he were to die tomorrow he'd die gladly. 

"I love you," he whispers, listening to Barton sleeping. Now that he can say it time and time again, he doesn't get tired of saying it, and every time he says it, his heart brims anew with happiness. 

He cannot stop himself from touching Barton, featherlight kisses and caresses. All the touches he could not bestow on his love until this moment, he bestows now. He kisses his jaw, then the corners of his mouth, his warm eyelids. He kisses even the bridge of his nose, his hairline, his eyebrows, which he later traces with the tip of his index finger.

The light of the sun colors the room golden. 

Barton's face is warm, his lips dry.

Another hour passes by, and only when the sun is almost setting in the sky, Loki realizes that Barton is still knotted inside him. By then he doesn't feel any more pain, just a slight pull when Barton shifts in his sleep, tiny frissons of pleasurepainpleasure coursing up his spine, tugging at his heart. It's as if Barton's body doesn't want to let him go, and that feeling is worth _any_ pain.

Didn't he read somewhere that it's a good thing when an alpha's knot takes time to deflate? For the frost giants it means that the union is a good one, maybe just sentimental folklore—but in that very moment Loki can understand the sentiment. He too feels that Clint staying inside him for such a long time means he must love him and truly want to be with him.

Around five he hears a faint beep from a pocket in Barton's discarded clothes, but it's only a message not a call.

Barton opens his eyes.

Loki touches his face, kisses him.

"Good morning, my love," he says, delirious with joy. He is being silly. It's long past noon but he just wants to taste those words in his mouth. 

From this day on he can call him that, his love, today and tomorrow and every day after that.

Barton stares at him. His eyes are a dull grey, uncomprehending.

Loki kisses him again.

Barton frowns.

"What the fuck," he grits out. His voice is harsh, rough.

Loki smiles at him.

"We're still knotted. You need to wake up, and then—"

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here? In my fucking bed?" Barton snarls.

Loki stares at Barton in disbelief.

When Barton moves to try and dislodge him, Loki cries out in pain, but Barton pays him no heed.

"Please…you're…it hurts," Loki gasps out, but then Barton tugs again, violently, and Loki nearly blacks out from the sharp pain tearing him apart. He feels warm wetness trickle down his thighs, then the metallic smell of blood creeps into his nostrils.

"What did you do?" rages Barton, now taking Loki, who is screaming in pain, and _pulling_. He slaps Loki hard in the face, then grabs his throat and squeezes. 

Loki claws at his fingers, and Barton just slaps him harder, bucking up. Reaching down to hold Loki's thighs down, he gives one last sharp, violent pull and he is free.

Loki curls himself into a ball and continues screaming, hands clawed into the reddening bed sheets.

"Did you make me fuck you?" Barton screams, shaking him, then hurls him from the bed. He jumps with his weight on top of Loki and proceeds to kick him in the ribs, in the head. When his heel connects with Loki's cheekbone, the sickening noise of bones breaking can be heard.

Loki does not hit back, does not struggle. 

(He cannot.)

He only tries to crawl away under the bed, but Barton pulls him back with a swift move, as if Loki weighs nothing, and roaring with rage he attacks Loki again, kicking the unresistant body on the floor.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Loki lets out a gurgling sound, unable to speak. Blood flows out of his mouth, coloring his teeth crimson. The fingers of the hand he is trying to raise are broken.

"Please," he wants to say.

Then someone pulls him back, and the next thing Loki sees is Barton being flung like a rag doll across the room. He can barely open his eyes, but he thinks he recognizes Natasha's face hovering over him, and he can hear Steve's panicked voice, Tony's shouting.

One of them, probably Tony, repeats over and over, "Jesus fucking Christ, that's fucked up," like a record. 

Then Bruce is here, and Loki reaches for him, grateful to be able to escape the pain…but Bruce is not Bruce, Loki realizes—it's the Hulk lifting him gently up, cradling him in one gigantic arm like a small child. His eyes are red with fury.

So this is how he will die. He would laugh if he could, about the cosmic justice being dealt out here. In the end he does die through the green monsters hand. He knows that Bruce will be devastated once he emerges and wishes he could leave Bruce some comfort.

"It's all right," he wants to say, but his voice only comes out as a whisper: "Do it."

Loki closes his eyes, waiting for his neck to be snapped, his head smashed against a wall.

" _NO_ ," the Hulk says. His voice is hoarse and strangled and strangely mournful and Loki wonders why the Hulk is so sad. Who is he mourning?

Then the Hulk moves while still holding him with impossible tenderness and now he can see that the Hulk is moving towards Clint, his other hand balled to a fist. The Hulk's destructive anger is not directed at Loki.

Although he nearly loses consciousness at the pain he feels when he moves his jaw, he manages to beg the Hulk, "Don't harm him. Do not harm Clint. It…it is my fault!"

His vision is flickering out, moments of blackness leaving him disoriented. He can't see. It's too dark.

"It is my fault," Loki whispers again, knowing he will lose consciousness any minute.

Other people arrive, and he can hear orders being spoken. The cacophony of sounds becomes overwhelming. Other, stranger's hands take him, and he recognizes the cool, soothing touch of professionals, the talcum powder smell of surgical gloves. Someone reiterates the extent of the damage, counts his broken bones and the location of his torn flesh but the voice already sounds as if it is coming from far away, from the far end of a long tunnel. 

"Someone must get Thor," a female voice says—Natasha. 

A paramedic takes his arm. 

He feels the prick of a needle.

"It will be alright," Steve says.

"Not ... afraid," Loki manages to grit out with his last shred of consciousness and then he just falls into a star-filled, brilliant night.

 

**End of Book 1**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> **So Much Light We Could See to the Other Side**  
> 
> 
>   
>  by [Tina Chang](http://www.tinachang.com/poems.htm)  
> 
> 
>   
> All fuel and fire, spine left like a bent arrow, dark matter,  
> the teeth as relic, all of our words bitter fruit. Who could  
> have believed we were made like this. The cosmonaut,
> 
> the soothsayer, and the blind archeologist knew merely  
> by feeling with the ends of their fingers which reached out  
> to nothing. We were a warring lot, hammered by days,
> 
> and greedy too. Our plates were dented with heavy spoons,  
> words spoken in secret in front of a fire, documents burned  
> before anything of substance was revealed. We made that fire,
> 
> fed the flames with newspapers, kings, martyrs, and love.  
> We were wanton, selfish, predisposed to constant dreaming.  
> We fed, fought and then fought some more until night arrived
> 
> with its hellish glow. All around us, mothers taught their children  
> words for the first time. They fashioned the universe into something  
> knowable, sayable. Say this, said the mother and the infant repeated
> 
> the words, clumsily, devoted. The child's devotion was the world  
> fabricating a truth. Repairs on the other side of the hemisphere.  
> The archeologist found our bones and said we were a strong
> 
> and healthy race, grew more ingenious than any generation before us,  
> before we fell away from wit, invention, our own empty embrace.  
> We ran to our end like leaping into a volcano. Unstoppable fury.
> 
> We should have disappeared entirely after the bomb, the floods,  
> our own desertion. Someone's mouth blows dust off the bones.  
> The soothsayer predicts that we will come back, the cosmonaut
> 
> is willing to bet when the world ended there were more  
> stars filling the sky than ever before. There once was shadow,  
> before a last light came, not to darken the plain but to define it.


	21. The Red Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Book 2 of A Tale Of Starry Nights!
> 
> First of all a big, big BIG thank you for still reading this monster-fic! 
> 
> Thank you for your comments! I'll try to reply to all of them. I'm not sure if I can but please know that each time a new notification arrived in my inbox it made me write faster, or when I was in a lull, it inspired me to take up the work again. I seriously love you people! It's really down to you commenters that I can finally upload this chapter.
> 
> I know my English isn't perfect–it's not my mother tongue and I currently don't have a steady beta (and if you look at the volume of that fic it would be unfair to ask of anyone to dedicate their time to beta this!) so I am even more honoured by your love!
> 
> Just a few words to this chapter: There are a lot of warnings in the tags but the ones relevant today are  
> —mentions of abuse  
> —mpreg  
> —character death (minor ofc though, so no worries!)
> 
> Okay, I love you all very, very much!
> 
> * * *

To this day she frequently dreams of the long runs through the endless flat lands of Siberia. She dreams of the sharp, crisp air. She remembers the smell of snow and ice and rocks. She feels her muscles working, the strength in her calves, the ground beneath her feet. She remembers the world flying by. She remembers feeling victorious and free and alive.

Every time she wakes up she feels the slight disorientation of not knowing if she is still dreaming.

Being awake doesn’t ever really feel like being awake but she’s gotten used to it. 

 

_The first time the girls ran through the grasslands they were not older than eight, nine at the most. By that time all of the girls underwent a strict training regime. None of them were average nine year olds. They were already soldiers._

_She and the other girls ran after their teacher, in groups of four or five. At some point the consistency of the ground changed—they ran through an enormous basalt field. (To this day she remembers the black stones stretching endlessly, a wild, terrifying beauty that made her heart ache.)_

_They ran upwards for hours until they reached the snow line, then had to find the trail snaking through the mountains and ran down again._

_At some point cracks appeared in the landscapes, like big gaping wounds. Their teacher set over them, not looking behind her once._

_During one of these jumps one of the girls fell into a ravine. She managed to get hold of the slippery ledge, but the smooth rock did not aid her attempts to get herself back up. She struggled for a while, until Katerina, who was the closest to her, helped and pulled her up._

_The teacher stood in the distance and watched._

_By the time it was winter they had to run that track alone. There were almost no landmarks in the endless snow, only the white sky, a distant and cold sun. They got three pieces of sweetened bread, a bottle of hot tea, a knapsack with various items, like a torch and a compass should they get lost. By the time Natasha arrived at the basalt field she had to recall the trainer’s steps exactly to remember which path to take._

_The girls were well trained. All of them returned safely before dusk, but Natasha ran the entire trail in less than half the time the others took. She took pride in this._

_The teacher did not coddle the girls. Her achievement was remarked upon and then it was back to normal._

_Natasha began to routinely run the track by herself in her own time but soon she branched out, ran bigger loops, explored the territory. There was something in the crude, harsh landscape that spoke to her. As a child she already knew that for someone like her these moments would be the closest to experiencing freedom in her life._

_(Even many years after she recovered her real childhood memories, the false implanted memories of a rigid ballet training at the Bolshoi Ballet threatened to overpower them sometimes. Especially when she was emotionally distressed she felt a tugging in her soul, a longing for these fake memories to be real. To combat this weakness she forced herself to remember the runs in the ice and the basalt—the cold, the loneliness, the grey skies, the black stone, the white patches of snow.)_

_She was a good student. The doctors and scientists attested her a high IQ. In class she was always prepared. She possessed an excellent memory but she was additionally diligent in her studies._

_One day her teacher called her back after class, into her office. Natasha took the offered seat, accepted warm tea and pieces of sweet, buttered bread._

_The teacher made a few remarks about Natasha, asked her questions in a kind tone, but when Natasha’s answers remained monosyllabic she seemed to decide to get to the point._

_„Do you resent your class mates?“ she asked._

_Natasha was taken aback by that question but kept her face neutral and expressionless._

_„I respect all my comrades, teacher,“ she said. She studied the woman’s face, trying to recognize her intentions._

_„Who is your best friend then?“ the teacher asked._

_Natasha suppressed her irritation._

_„I ... like and respect everyone,“ she said._

_„A dishonest answer and a weak lie,“ the teacher chided, smiling pleasantly, „tell me, do you not have a favorite person? One of the other girls?“_

_Natasha remained silent._

_The teacher sipped her tea, pensively stroking the rim of the cup. She looked very matronly with her braids and blue dress. Her eyes were deceptively warm, blue with brown sprinkles in them and framed by dark lashes._

_„You should pick a friend,“ she finally said._

_Natasha was too well trained to argue but something about her irritation must have shown on her face as the teacher bent down and took her chin between warm, slightly calloused fingers._

_„Humans are social animals. They are wary of someone who doesn’t need company. Don't invite scrutiny.“_

_Natasha did not shake her head but she didn’t nod either. She wasn’t sure she understood what the teacher was telling her._

_The teacher seemed to be on the verge of saying something, then let go of her chin and leaned back in her chair._

_„Go,“ she told Natasha, „go pick a friend. Look at the others. Do as they do.“_

 

„Look!“ the boy who has been playing for the last two hours on his NintentoDS says. Natasha follows the direction his finger is pointing.

Thunder is rolling through the sky, first faintly, but suddenly so loud, so close, the safety glass panes of the windows seem to shake in their steel frames. A long bout of lightning follows, and the lights in the hospital corridor flicker off and on again.

Suddenly Steve is at her side, the eternal worried frown stronger than ever. 

„There you are, we're looking for you.“ 

She stretches.

"Did Loki wake up?"

He pulls her up, and begins sprinting, and out of instinct, unquestioningly she begins sprinting too. 

„Thor,“ she realizes, „it’s Thor.“

„Yes,“ Steve says to her over his shoulder, as they pass door after door, „I think we should be the first ones to meet him, before he does something rash. Like, you know, killing Clint.“

As they reach the secluded, closed off section of the hospital, the security guards step wordlessly aside. Doors open and close behind them with a pneumatic sound. After passing a long hallway arrive at another reception area with desks, seats and computers, black sofas lining the walls. S.H.I.E.L.D agents have taken up office in there, and additional desks and chairs fill the room, cramming the otherwise generous space. Medical equipment is lined up against the wall. Doctors, nurses, scientists, technicians are hurrying around in organized chaos. 

Loki is mostly human, but there are definitely non-human parts of him, and only S.H.I.E.L.D. knows what is inside of Loki. Only they know the clockwork. They studied him for months before losing him to the Avengers and no other hospital could be trusted to handle Loki adequately. It’s a risk to hand him over to S.H.I.E.L.D. again and make him a pawn in this game but it makes sense. 

Fury is strangely nowhere to be seen, but Natasha senses he is absent on purpose. 

If Tony and the others are embittered about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s lightning fast strike they don’t show. The financial and technological means of S.H.I.E.L.D. are hard to argue against. Tony, under his appearance of being the drunk savant, is already calculating and planning when to snatch Loki back.

At the other end of the room she can see Bruce, who is quietly working on the computer, with a row of vials on a trolley beside him. When he sees her, he nods a greeting.

Tony is talking to him in a quiet voice, leaning on one of the desks.

„Where is he?“ Natasha asks, peering at one of the monitoring screens.

„Natasha,“ Thor’s voice says behind her.

The first things she thinks is that his loud voice has gone. His presence used to fill the room. He seemed to never be able to talk in an indoor voice. 

He is wearing his armor, the hammer in his right hand. At least he seems calm, although she can see a glint of dark madness lingering in his eyes.

Bruce, Tony, Steve embrace Thor. It’s a quiet moment.

„Where is he?“

Bruce leads him to the double-winged doors opening into a large, round room, filled with medical machinery. Behind her she can hear Bruce explain quietly. At some point Thor exhales sharply.

Loki is lying in the bed, back in the room, connected via tubes to all sorts of machines.

The ubiquitous heart rate monitor, a thick white tube taped to his mouth which is connected to the machine pressing air into his lungs, breathing for him. His head is bandaged, the neck is stabilized in a cervical collar. Both of his eyes are swollen completely shut, and a nasty swelling obscures his left cheek bone. 

His face is _littered_ with bruises. 

Loki is barely recognizable as a human being.

Thor takes the damage in for a moment.

„Is this a healing serum?“ he asks Natasha, gesturing towards an IV drip with a milky substance in it.

„Not exactly,“ Bruce says, „it keeps him anesthetized for the mechanical ventilation.“

Thor holds up a small vial, filled with a strange black liquid

„I need a device through which I can administer him this,“ he says.

Curious, Natasha steps closer to the vial.

No one has seen anything alike, Natasha can tell, not even Steve. It’s not still, but it’s not moving either. It’s not even liquid. It is blackness but there is a strange glittering promise of light in it. 

For an infinite moment she is pulled into the darkness and the light, and she thinks she can smell the tundra. She thinks she can smell rocks, and dried vegetation. 

Everyone, including Natasha, is pulled towards that vial. 

She is the first one to shake herself out of it, whatever _it_ is. 

„Put that away. Please,“ she hears Bruce say.

„What the fuck was that?“ Tony’s voice sounds rough.

„Idunns’ apples,“ Thor says, „On Asgard and in other realms we eat Idunn’s apples to prolong our lives but humans cannot simply eat them. Their bodies are not capable to consume the apples. The magic is too potent. So Idunn gave me this—it’s a drop of the essence of one of her apples.“

„What will it do?“

„It will aid recovery,“ Thor says, „it will heal muscle tears. Broken bones will heal faster, small fractures should be gone even within a day. The swellings on his eyes will disappear within minutes after administering the essence. Larger injuries and damaged organs take longer. Spinal injuries may still take weeks, but at least the spinal cord _will_ repair itself.“

Tony, Steve and Bruce still look slightly baffled, out of it.

„What do you need?“ Natasha asks.

„A …,“ Thor searches for the word, „ … a syringe.“

Bruce finds a syringe in a drawer near the bed.

Thor hands Bruce the vial. „Please give this to him as soon as possible,“ he begs him quietly.

„Do we need to wean him off the mechanical ventilator?“ Bruce asks, looking skeptically at the vial in Thor’s hand.

Thor frowns, studying the tube and the respiration apparatus. „That machine is breathing for him?“

Bruce nods.

„We need to remove that thing. He will breathe on his own.“

Bruce opens and closes her hand around the vial, thinking.

„Will Loki recover without intervention?“ Natasha asks.

Bruce doesn’t reply for a long time which is an answer in itself. He holds up the vial looks at it as if the blackness contained in it speaks to him, whispers an answer.

When he finally speaks, he speak slowly. 

„He sustained serious injuries. Severe brain trauma, concussions, hemorrhaging in brain tissue, punctured lungs, severe blood loss, incomplete fractures of the vertebrae at T7. It’s … it’s hard to say. He might … make it.“

„Even if he survives, he’ll likely be paralyzed, then,“ Natasha states.

Bruce hesitates for a moment, then turns to Thor.

„All of it?“ he asks, already pulling latex gloves on.

„Yes, all of it.“

Bruce opens the vial, and pulls the essence of Idunn’s apples into the syringe. Tony steps closer, staring at it, fascinated.

„Intravenous or intramuscular?“ he asks.

„It won’t matter,“ Thor says, „it just needs to enter his body.“

Natasha moves to the side of Loki’s head to remove the ventilator tube. Natasha underwent the basic mandatory medical training all S.H.I.E.L.D operatives have to undergo. She holds Loki’s head up, mindful of his injuries, while Bruce slides out the tube. She switches off the anesthetics.

She thinks Loki’s eyelids are fluttering, but she is sure it’s a play of the lights—Loki should be under with what is in his system for at least another hour.

„Alright then,“ Bruce takes a deep breath. He licks his lips nervously, staring at the needle, at the black essence moving lazily in the syringe.

He plunges the needle into Loki’s bare arm. 

„Here we go,“ he says.

He quietly swears under his breath, pushing Idunn’s essence in. Everyone in the room stares at the black night-like liquid, mesmerized. Something begins to shift in the room, as if the air takes on a different density.

For a moment nothing happens. Bruce pulls out the syringe, watches Loki’s features while more sweat beads on his forehead, on his upper lip, on his eyelids. 

Slowly a golden glowing light spreads over Loki’s arm, crawls over his face and down the rest of his body. Suddenly the soft glow bursts into a whiteness so strong Natasha sees nothing but the light for a while.

For a moment Natasha sees the open sky, a girl smiling at her.

Loki’s body arches up. He gasps in air.

The light turns white and it travels over the planes of Loki’s skin, and wherever it touches the bruises fade leaving unblemished skin.

„Amazing,“ Bruce breathes, „this is … incredible.“

Loki opens his eyes. He looks confused and fearful.

Thor moves closer.

„Brother,“ Thor says, his eyes full of tears.

Loki wants to snort it seems but he only manages to twitch.

While Steve and Bruce are standing beside Loki’s bed, Tony stays in the back, fist pressed to his mouth, his eyes black and intense. 

Natasha feels a small touch on her fingers. When she looks down she can see Loki's fingers touching hers.

Loki is trying to speak, and Bruce hushes him. 

„You need to rest,“ he says.

Though Loki is awake, it’s evident that not all his injuries are healed–Loki is still in pain but he refuses to let go of her hand. 

He opens his mouth, looking at her, whispering something. She can’t understand what he is trying to say at first.

"Rest, brother," Thor says, but Loki shakes his head. Natasha bends down towards him, so close to him, his lips touch her ear and finally she can hear what he is trying to say.

„Is Clint alright?“

 

_Natasha wasn’t particularly rebellious and the day after her talk with the teacher she adjusted her attitude. In class when other girls joked with each other she laughed with them. She became part of a group. In that group she picked another girl, Yelena, and became friends with her._

_They trained and studied together. After a while Yelena began telling her things—nothing special, just thoughts she didn’t tell anyone else, so Natasha listened, learned and told her stories too. Yelena soon begun to touch her casually—grab her arm, when she was excited, embrace her sometimes, and Natasha noted all of that and repeated it, observing the effect. Yelena was very intelligent. She had bright eyes, sparkling with wit. She was funny and Natasha appreciated her humor. She knew how others perceived her as humorless at times._

_Physically Yelena was in good shape, like the others, but Natasha noticed, that Yelena tended to give up more easily than her. She was pragmatic about goals and a great proponent of saving energy instead of vainly attempting to fulfill certain tasks. Yelena was a bit smarter than her, a bit quicker. She on the other side was stronger than Yelena, more tenacious. Natasha figured they made a good team._

_The teacher did not call her back after class anymore, so Natasha assumed, she was satisfied._

_A few months later, during a night in spring, the trainers and teachers woke the girls up, told to pack up in ten minutes. Exercises during the night were common so they were used to that drill. They quietly packed their backpacks, then gathered ten minutes later in front of the camp. One of the trainers told them to get into the back of two large trucks. Some of them, used to sleep under harsh circumstances, fell right back asleep, clutching their backpacks._

_They drove for hours and hours. At times they stopped, so the girls could relieve themselves at the side of the road and move their legs. Natasha and some others immediately did physical exercises to move the sluggish blood._

_In the late afternoon hours of the next day they finally stopped at a barrack. It did not look inhabited—a heavy chain locked the front door. When the sun went down they went to bed. Yelena and Natasha had to share a bed. Yelena spoke a little before falling asleep—just a little chit chat, about her arm still hurting from training, how she was still a bit hungry, that she was thinking of strengthening her legs more. Natasha’s replies were monosyllabic hums, but she didn’t mind Yelena’s chattering—it was a nice comfort, added to the warmth of Yelena’s body beside hers._

_A few hours later they were woken up. Like everyone else, Natasha warmed up, stretched, then performed push ups. Before she could do more, the teacher stopped her, putting her large hand onto her shoulder, then put a warm bowl of kasha before her._

_„Conserve your energy,“ she told her, smiling, „eat.“_

_All the girls ate hungrily and for a while the only sound that could be heard was the clanking of spoons against the wooden bowls. The teacher, unusually maternal, took care that everyone ate._

_"It's going to be a long day," she told them, "you are going to need your strength."_

_Natasha and Yelena both ate slowly and carefully, sipping the strong, hot tea. After the breakfast they were ordered to sit in the trucks again._

_When they took their places, Natasha looked around at the faces of the other girls. Most of them wore pensive expressions. They probably too remembered the persistent rumor they had heard since they arrived at this camp—that one day a big final test would be performed, a test that would test their endurance, their strength and skills and only the ones who would pass would be able to stay on. All the others would be sent home._

_At times Natasha had thought about this big test to come. Maybe she could fail it on purpose. She would be sent to an orphanage but she would be free. Maybe, to win was to know when to lose._

 

The doctors and nurses are gathered around Loki, noting the changes in his condition and adjusting treatments, dosage of painkillers, changing bandages. They’re all S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical staff and highly trained—although Loki’s sudden improvement is astonishing, everyone is calm and composed. Loki himself is mostly out of it.

„What did he say to you?“ Bruce asks.

„He asked for Clint.“

Bruce rubs his hand against the fabric of his trousers, then pushing up his glasses. „What will happen to Clint now?“

„Clint’s in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody now,“ Steve says from behind Bruce, „he is currently heavily sedated until they can figure out what to do with him.“

„I’ll ask the council if I can bring Loki home,“ Thor says after a while, „after … this incident… they may permit it.“

„But what about Clint—the bond?“ asks Bruce.

„Asgard will request for Barton to be extradited,“ Thor says coldly, „given the circumstances he won’t receive the death penalty but he’ll be imprisoned. We have means to keep him in a dream state, so he won’t be able to harm Loki.“

„What does ‚dream state‘ mean?“ Steve asks.

„Coma,“ Tony answers for Thor, „that’s what you mean right, Thor?“

Thor narrows his eyes at Tony.

„Your friend,“ he says slowly, „would not suffer if that is what you are worried about.“

„ _You_ and Asgard left Loki here. With Clint and Loki’s history something was bound to happen,“ Tony acidly remarks, „now you behave as if we are the only ones responsible for this mess. Where were you? I thought you’re sitting on a throne overlooking the universe–and yet you didn’t see this?“

„Navigating the course of the universe means I cannot focus on the suffering of one man. It would be selfish to only keep my eye on Loki to protect him and accept others pay the price. You were responsible for keeping Barton and Loki safe.“

„Well, if you Thor of Asgard, could not prevent this, although you saw it happening, how come you blame us?“

„I don’t care about placing blame. My objective is to ensure Loki’s safety and clearly the measures taken so far have failed in providing it. Why is not of interest to me at the moment.“

„This whole bonding thing is fucked up, and there is no good way to handle it. None of us knows what is even going on. By trying to kill off Byleistr Loki made sure we still have no clue. And I don’t see Byleistr trying to help Loki again.“

"Do you really think, taking Loki back to Asgard is a good idea?" Natasha asks, "I thought originally the Asgardian council was very clear in their desire to not have Loki in their realm any longer."

„I don’t know how else to protect Loki," Thor admits. 

„What about restoring his power. His divinity or whatever. Turn him into a god again?“ Steve asks. 

Thor’s face resembled a stone mask. „Loki must remain human for the rest of his life. I cannot reverse this. The magic used to turn him human—I cannot replicate this magic."

„Then what good would it do to haul Loki back now to Asgard, now that he’s human? He’d be only more vulnerable and last time I checked, he’s not the most popular guy there.“

They are bickering like children. 

„Asgard can keep him safe. Clint Barton would not have the opportunity to attack him again.“

For a while nobody says anything. Natasha watches as Bruce discusses with the medical team. They are looking at screens and monitors and notes. When she sees Bruce rubbing his hands over his face she knows it’s not good news.

„Clint has to be arrested and retired from S.H.I.E.L.D. There is no way around it,“ Steve carefully says, „but I don’t think Loki and Clint going to Asgard is a viable solution either.“

„S.H.I.E.L.D. can perform certain memory-altering treatments on Clint,“ Natasha muses, „I’m not medical department but there are neuro-surgical procedures once it's clear what caused him to attack Loki.“

„Lobotomy? Really, _Romanova_?“ Tony’s scoffs. „Good old Soviet union. Is that how you deal with shit?“

„Lobotomy is not an invention of the Soviet union,“ Natasha replies acidly, irritated by Tony’s unusually thoughtless remark, „I am brainstorming options. Clint’s attack is disconcerting and should worry you too. A highly trained assassin like Clint Barton losing his mind and randomly attacking people is a very dangerous thing to let happen. We need to find out what happened. It can be mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse, trauma, PTSD. But whatever it is, he needs to be restrained.“

Tony stares at her, then shrugs. 

„I thought Clint is your friend,“ Steve says.

„And he is,“ Natasha replies. She doesn’t look away when Steve looks into her eyes.

 

_  
When the trucks finally came to a stop, it was still pitch dark but the air had a crispness to it, smelled of morning. The accompanying trainers yelled commands, and all the girls formed a line, staring straight ahead into the darkness._

_The teacher was silent for a while, before she began to speak. It was supposed to look as if she was searching for words, but she knew exactly what she was going to say and had said the exact same words a lot of times Natasha realized. She always knew these things about people._

_„Today you will see the Red Room,“ she began, „the Red Room is today. And after this day, it will be part of who you are.“_

_In the cold darkness her voice was strangely disembodied._

_„This is my apology,“ she said, „In the years to come, you will come to understand my apology. Maybe you will find it in you to forgive me. Maybe you won't.“_

_Natasha swallowed, feeling unease at that brittle voice._

_„For each and everyone of you the Red Room will look and feel different. The Red Room within your head will take on different dimensions and different ghosts will haunt it. Each of you will make different decisions on how to navigate the Red Room but inevitably, you will come to despise me. I won’t hold it against you.“_

_The teacher paused again._

_„The maps are in your luggage. Your mission will be simple enough: arrive safely at the location I have marked for you. It won’t be a long mission. You have climbed higher mountains and walked longer treks, but the only thing differing from your other missions will be that today we will not interfere should you fail. Your lives will be in your own hands.“_

_Natasha blinked._

_After a minute, a trainer yelled a command and the girls straightened. They were paired: Natasha was unsurprisingly paired with Yelena. When Natasha glanced around her, she realized everyone was paired with her best friend. They were all trained to recognize their tasks from the set of tools they received. The teacher handed each of the girls a small parcel—it turned out to contain ropes, carabiners, pitons, crampons, gloves, a map, food and drink._

_Natasha and Yelena had climbed rocks together in the past. They had hiked together several times, just the two of them but also together with larger groups._

_Yelena immediately opened the map sand they both quietly studied it._

_„You can pick your path,“ the teacher told them, „ you have until dark, ten hours.“_

_They sat down looking at the map and the mountain before them._

_Yelena identified three possible routes, marking them with different colored pencils._

_„If we climb the north east wall here, we can take the whole thing in less than five hours,“ Natasha said._

_„Too dangerous,“ Yelena shook her head, „we should take this route.“ She pointed at the southeast._

_„It would be a long hike. It’d be already afternoon by the time we reach the ice. It’s safer but it would cost us too much time.“_

_Yelena gave her a shrewd look. „If I were your team leader I’d insist you take the safest route.“_

_Natasha smiled. „If I were your agent I’d disobey and take the short route.“_

_Yelena laughed. „No, you wouldn’t,“ she said fondly._

_They both looked at the mountains. In the grey light of dawn they looked looming and dark and huge._

_„We’ve been hiking already—and we climbed mountains like this before,“ Natasha tried again. „We crossed ice fields before. We’re trained for this.“_

_Yelena sighed and playfully rolled her eyes._

_„You always want to be the first!“_

_„Do you never want to?“_

_Yelena shrugged._

_„Let’s take the short route then.“_

_They set out only half an hour later. Most had chosen the same route, Yelena and Natasha realized. Speed over safety._

_The teacher and the trainers reinforced the rules once more. They would observe but not interfere. Their lives were their own responsibilities._

_„If you die,“ one of the trainers, an older man with sad-looking eyes told them, „you will die alone in the cold. So don’t die.“_

_They were fortunate with the weather—only after a few hours the sun came up. When they reached the rocky part, the sun was high in the sky._

_„Good, let’s try to climb up before sunset,“ Yelena said. The mountain wasn’t too high, but even with their limited experience they could see the difficulties. The consistency of the surface looked unfamiliar—the rocks they had climbed in the past had had different surfaces, the visibility wasn’t ideal. They both knew that the region was known for unforeseen changes of wind and temperatures._

_On the other hand, the climb was short. There was one truly difficult part, the almost vertical north face they would first have to traverse before being able to abseil onto the northeast-facing slope, but after that they’d be able to get to the snow line. If they didn’t get lost, the hike through the ice would take them less than two hours. They would manage with their crampons._

_„Ready?“ Yelena asked._

_„Of course, I’m waiting for _you_ ,“ Natasha said, and they both laughed. _

_As they approached they could clearly see the rocks were slippery, but the few cracks were filled with loose dirt. Using pitons in that surface would be a gamble._

_Natasha took the lead. She was a decent climber and soon she could feel herself become one with the surface. Her brain wasn’t even involved in that process. Her hand automatically found purchase, her feet a ledge to stand on. She hammered in pitons into the vertical cracks, clipped in the carabiners and pulled the rope through securing herself, then tugged it to communicate to Yelena she could follow._

_She craned her neck to watch Yelena’s climb._

_Yelena wasn’t the most effective fighter but surprisingly a talented and very creative climber. Natasha noted that a few of her methods were downright innovative—where Natasha used brute force, strength and endurance, Yelena pushed herself off the surface with the grace of a dancer to reach difficult ledges, swung back and forth until she gained the right momentum and used her lower body strength to nearly catapult herself onto the next ledge. Her body appeared weightless_

_When Yelena, her face reddened, her entire body drenched in sweat, pulled herself onto a ledge, the weight of her effort almost knocked the piton loose. Dust, a few small rocks crumbled downwards._

_„Eh, careful,“ Natasha chided, un-clipping the carabiner and pulling the piton out._

_„You have to knock them in a bit better, Romanov,“ Yelena grumbled playfully, „I had a lot of pancakes for breakfast!“_

_They laughed, Natasha shaking her head, Yelena took the lead now, reached for the next ledge, while Natasha waited, pressed against the surface._

_She listened to Yelena inserting her knife blade piton, then felt the tug of the rope._

_„We’re almost at the traverse,“ she said, when Natasha reached her._

_They looked at the almost smooth surface to their left—it looked deceptively short, but they both knew it was one of the most dangerous parts of their climb._

_Natasha climbed up, found a stable ledge and inserted her piton, then attached the rope to the carabiner, tested the knot, nodded towards Yelena, who moved backwards, and began to run over the surface—just like a mountain gazelle—towards the rocks, then with a grace that belied gravity, she pushed herself off and for a moment seemed to float suspended in the air, the rope pulled taut between her and the rock. Natasha did not think she had seen anything more beautiful in her life._

_As Yelena flew back towards the basalt rocks in neck-breaking speed, Natasha held her breath—she expected Yelena to get smashed against the rocky surface, but then her arm shot out, grabbed a ledge and was suddenly securely on the other side._

_Natasha smiled as Yelena threw her left arm up in a victorious gesture._

_From further away they heard whooping—the other girls had seen Yelena’s amazing jump as well._

_Yelena inserted the piton, attached the carabiner with an audible echoing click, looped her end of the rope. Natasha used the rope, tightly secured against the rock, to cross the traverse._

_„That move you make,“ Natasha said, slightly out of breath, „you have to teach me one day. It's amazing.“_

_„I know,“ Yelena said smugly._

_Natasha rolled her eyes._

_After a sip of water, they continued the climb—it was only a few meters until the final ledge, and Yelena was the first one to reach it, pushed over by Natasha, who in turn was pulled up by Yelena._

_„We’re in the lead,“ Yelena said, „Excellent!“_

_„Indeed,“ Natasha stepped to the edge to see where the others were. Quite a few were approaching the goal from a complete different side so couldn’t be seen, but some of the girls, daring as they were, were climbing slowly towards the traverse. As the sun rose higher in the sky, rays of light traveled across the surfaces, highlighting the edges._

_„We shouldn’t have left the rope, I guess,“ Natasha mused, as the first climber tugged at the rope they had left behind._

_Yelena shrugged. „In a real mission we should have taken it with us but the teacher will forgive us when we’re the first to arrive. As long as no one overtakes us.“_

_„Unlikely by now,“ Natasha said._

_„True.“_

_They ate some bread, drank water, wiped their faces clean from the dust of climbing. One of Yelena’s hands was bruised and needed to be disinfected, then bandaged. They studied the map again, discussed the trip across the ice. Yelena handed Natasha sun goggles and renewed the whitish thick cream to protect them from the sun and the reflection of the ice._

_„It’s steep,“ Yelena commented, „at least it’s warm and sunny now.“_

_They attached the crampons onto their boots and begun the hike across the ice. It wasn’t as hard as they had expected, the top layer already warmed by the short burst of sun._

_„This doesn’t feel like the Red Room,“ Yelena said, when they had crossed a decent stretch._

_„I know, I thought the same thing,“ Natasha agreed._

_„I am a little disquieted by that,“ Yelena stated after a while, „aren’t you?“_

_„I am, but there is no use in worrying now.“_

_They climbed up a steep slope in silence. It was short but Natasha and Yelena both slipped downwards twice, set off chunks of ice, and had to climb upwards again._

_„I don’t like this,“ Yelena broke the silence, her breath labored now from the climbing._

_„Don’t think we’re supposed to,“ Natasha said wryly, her eyes narrowed and slightly hurting from the whiteness of the ice despite her goggles._

_They realized after a while they were slightly off course—they were only off a kilometre but it made a difference in this steep terrain. A few times they needed to employ their ice axes._

_Yelena cursed under her breath, Natasha frowned._

_„Do you think we lost our lead?“ Yelena adjusted her goggles._

_„Let’s concentrate on getting back on track,“ Natasha just said._

_„Do you think someone will die today,“ Yelena asked._

_They were only hundred metres or so away from the next ledge and after that there was a small slope which they could walk down towards the valley but they both had started to tire, from the constant employment of their thigh muscles and calves, as they sought purchase in the ice._

_Natasha disliked the wet, sticky consistency, the hardness of the ice underneath._

_„I always heard of some children not surviving the Red Room, but I don’t know. Only rumors.“_

_They finally reached the ledge and looked at the relatively flat expanse of white in front of them. There was a thin stripe of yellowish green in the distance, indicating the snow limit. The mountain rose up again after that, gently almost, in curve, and small white cones of snow sat on the rocks. The mountains around them seemed silent and yet withholding secrets, witnesses of centuries and millennia._

_„To think these mountains will be here when we’re both long dead,“ Yelena said._

_„Eh,“ Natasha, bumped her in the side and tickled her. Yelena laughed and for a moment held her hand. Playfully they wrestled and suddenly their fingers entwined._

_(Natasha never knew who had first slid their fingers in between the others, only Yelena’s smaller hand was in hers, palm pressed against her, and she felt their hearts beat.)_

_Yelena pulled her hand away first, averted her eyes,_

_„Come on, comrade,“ she said, closing up her bag, „we need to get to the valley before sunset.“_

_They drank the rest of the now slightly stale water. Natasha pulled herself up, her calves aching a little._

_Yelena suddenly stilled._

_„Do you hear that?“ she murmured, frowning._

_„Hear what?“ Natasha said, but before she ended her sentence she heard it too, a low, rumbling sound accompanied by something else, another sound. She looked at the ice field again_

_It was not a sound. It was nothing like a sound, it was a wave of something, or a scream twisting out from the inside._

_She turned around to Yelena who had sunk to her knees. Natasha could see the white around her eyes. Her face was a pallid grey._

_„Something …,“ Yelena whispered, „is here.“_

_Natasha felt her own heartbeat speeding up until it hammered in her ears, and she turned around herself again, to see where it was coming from–but as she saw nothing, just the white and sparse green and grey of the rocks the horror and dread increased._

_A deep rumbling emanated from the mountain itself. A gush of air rose up, the ice particles in it cutting like thousands of glass shards._

_The ground seemed to shake, but Natasha wasn’t sure if it was in her mind or if it was real._

_„What is that?“ Yelena was breathing shallowly, shaking._

_Natasha had never felt fear like this in her entire life. It seemed to claw out from the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, the ugliest thing she had ever felt. Around her voices started to scream and sing, but she knew this must be in her head, as they were alone. Even the white snow around her seemed suddenly menacing, as if it was hiding something terrible, something unspeakable._

_She reminded herself to breathe, performed breathing exercises she had learned during her training. A part of her knew it was the wrong thing to do but she began to scream. It was mindless and she was aware of it, but she didn't find a way to stop._

_Her eyes fell onto the path leading to the valley, and unthinkingly she began running towards it. The vision around her became blurry and the only thing she could see was that strip of green she needed to reach._

_Yelena got up and begun to run too, but she was stumbling and after some meters she stopped, sinking onto her knees_

_She began to claw at her face, her screaming and sobbing._

_Natasha turned to run back when another sound, akin to thunder begin to fill the air around her, except it didn’t come from the sky. It came from the mountains._

_An enormous cloud of snow rolled down towards them, increasing in speed, as it picked up the top layers of wet snow. She had never seen an avalanche as large as this. The core of it, barely visible through the cloud of pulverized ice, looked almost sluggish._

_„Yelena,“ she said, but her voice didn't obey her. Her muscles felt locked—she was frozen to the spot. The fear was paralyzing her she realized. It was a purely physical reaction. She was like the mouse cowering while the shadow of the hawk was passing over her but she needed to pull herself out of this._

_„Natalja Alianovna Romanova,“ she heard her own voice in her head cutting like a knife through her panic._

_„You need to run.“_

_Her body set in motion, her legs were running although her mind was bewildered, still frozen on the spot._

_There was no room, no time for thinking left. The crampons prevented her from slipping but she felt they slowed her down as well. Something inside her took over, more ancient than her trained reflexes. It was as if a machine had switched on, taking over her mind and her body._

_She listened to her own heartbeat, like the wings of a bird against its cage, could hear her blood rush through her veins, could feel her lungs burning._

_For a moment the world slid away and instead she was a child once more, running through the grass fields, the open sky above her. She was her body and nothing else, and a wild, primeval happiness filled her, the black, dark fear that had possessed her only a moment ago—forgotten._

_Instead all she could think was that she was alive._

She only realizes she must have fallen asleep, when one of Loki’s fingers touches her sleeve. He’s been wheeled back to his room fast asleep after the S.H.I.E.L.D medical staff conducted their tests on him. 

The tests confirm that he'll live. Just as Thor said, not all of his injuries are gone, but most of them. 

Bruce and Tony are discussing the abnormalities in his blood, and she knows Bruce wants to take a few brain scans once Loki is awake. Some of the larger fractures will take longer to heal, so he’ll still be kept in the hospital.

Loki blinks groggily. When his gaze falls onto her he smiles.

She gets a nurse, who asks Loki questions—if he's okay, if he's in pain, etc., and Natasha sees him shaking his head or nodding. Loki’s eyes flicker to her. She remains in the room, leaning against the cool wall beside the door. 

When she thinks about Clint, she thinks she is being neutral. Or is she? Is she now biased due to her connection with Loki? Is he manipulating her?

_But who am I to judge. Loki does what he thinks he needs to do in order to survive._

Does she judge Clint? 

She doesn’t. She hardly ever does. She is as, Fury likes to put it, _outcome oriented_. She receives order, then executes them. Clint was never as good in compartmentalizing as she was. His armor had always been brittle, the layer that buried his humanity too thin. It had been her obligation as a friend to protect him. 

Sometimes she entertains the thought, that if Loki would have brainwashed her with his scepter she would have maybe not been able to come back—Clint had that shred of humanity in him, that memory of pain and loss which she could get hold of, but once she would have been in Loki’s thrall she would have been a mere shell.

Once the nurse has left, she steps closer again. Loki looks earnest but he smiles when he sees her.

„Agent Romanov,“ Loki says, his voice still so low she has to bend down to hear him. His other hand comes up. His smile is tight, meant to hide pain. Loki the god of lies is not a very good liar any longer now that he is human. That little muscle underneath his eye betrays him.

„You … worried,“ he whispers, raising his eyebrows in a show of mockery, „how sweet … you.“

He coughs. His breath is stale, bitter. Natasha fetches him water. He makes a point of drinking directly from the glass, although his hand is shaking, ignoring the straw.

„Asgardian gods and Frostgiants are a little more resilient than you’d think,“ he says in an affected manner supposed to sound light and mocking. He coughs again.

She lets him speak.

„Humans … so easy to spook,“ he continues, then flashes another smile.

He tries to put the glass on the table beside the bed, but nearly drops it. Natasha catches the glass and refills it.

„You need to rest,“ she says, watching him watching her.

„I’m bored. I slept enough.“

She doesn’t point out that he was unconscious not asleep. As she sits down in the chair beside his bed, she notes how his hand is clenched, the knuckles white. As soon as he sees her looking at his hand he relaxes it. 

„I really hope you won’t be too hard on poor Clint,“ Loki tries now, in the same artificial lighthearted tone.

„Why are you saying that?“ Natasha asks calmly.

Loki attempts a shrug, but pales slightly—Natasha knows the ribs and the collar bone are not fully healed yet.

„I don’t want anyone to … overreact.“

„Overreact?“ Natasha blinks.

"Well, I'm under the impression people that incident very seriously." He attempts a laugh. Natasha looks at her own hands in her lap, not entirely sure why it is hard for her to look at him. 

„Is he here?“

Natasha shakes her head. "Loki—"

For a moment all pretense falls off Loki’s face. Only childlike, helpless longing is in his eyes.

„Clint. Is he … is he alright?“

„Clint is under arrest,“ Natasha says after a while, „he’ll remain under arrest until Director Fury has made a decision regarding this incident.“

Loki closes his eyes.

„What do you think will happen?“

Natasha watches him closely. She wonders if she should have used the word „assault“ but then again he seems determined not to face what has happened to him. 

She lays a hand onto his cheek, and he opens his eyes. 

„First there will be an investigation—you’ll be questioned, he’ll be interrogated. We’ll all be questioned. S.H.I.E.L.D will collect the data, compile a report, then send it to the council. The S.H.I.E.L.D council may put Clint through a trial but at the very least he will be detained in a S.H.I.E.L.D facility for a year, probably longer.“

„You mean he’ll be imprisoned,“ he whispers, „and he won’t be an agent any longer.“

„No,“ Natasha confirms, „his days as an agent are over.“

„You are his friend,“ Loki says, „you know how hard that would hit him. You have to help him, please.“

„This is out of my hands,“ Natasha says.

„No,“ Loki says after a while, visibly bewildered, „you would not abandon him. I know you. I have seen his memories of you.“

„You have only seen his thoughts and reflections of me,“ Natasha reminds him, „you have not actually seen me.“

„I have seen enough,“ Loki hisses. 

He closes his eyes again, exhausted.

„Remember our conversation on the helicarrier?“

Natasha can’t say he is surprised he reminds her of it. 

„I do,“ she replies.

„Do you still think of her sometimes?“ Loki asks, „Drakov’s daughter?“

 

_  
Eight girls died that day._

_Five were declared missing for now, buried under the avalanche. They would be found in a few days, when the snow would have melted._

_The surviving girls were wrapped in blankets and all of them received several injections. They had early on learned not to question what they were injected with. Natasha watched dispassionately as the needle sunk into her skin, flexed her arm afterwards._

_Most of the girls were in shock—their faces pale, eyes dark and huge, shaking. Natasha almost stumbled over one girl who sat on the ground, gnawing at her knuckles._

_„It’s alright,“ she told her, kneeling down. She couldn’t recognize her own voice—soothing and calm, as if she had not just lost her friend._

_The girl looked up at her, and Natasha thought of a frightened animal for a moment._

_„Natasha,“ the girl murmured. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, tried to get up but her legs were shaking too much. She had been on the rocks, just about to traverse when the avalanche hit, Natasha recalled. One large chunk of ice had hit her partner and smashed her head, who had still been roped to her. She had to cut off the rope to be able to reach the ledge._

_„Yelena? Did she—?“_

_Natasha shook her head. „She didn’t make it,“ she said curtly._

_The girl said nothing, peered into Natasha’s face with wide eyes. She opened her mouth to say something but then decided against it and just looked away._

_„We survived the Red Room,“ Natasha heard herself saying, to her own disbelief._

_The girl emitted a shrill laugh then shook her head._

_Natasha stood and walked towards the truck. Maybe she could do something. Someone would tell her what to do._

_When she arrived at the truck she saw the three bodies, covered with blankets._

_She wanted to walk by, but then stepped closer to them. Surely there was something else she was supposed to feel, than this devastating nothingness._

_She heard a noise behind her._

_„You should look at them,“ her teacher said._

_Natasha did not turn around._

_„It’s waste of resources,“ she just said._

_„It was unavoidable,“ the teacher replied._

_She tugged at one end of the blanket and uncovered the face of one of the dead girls. Her features were contorted into a scream, but her head was split open and the dried blood covering her face made it hard for Natasha to recognize her._

_„We tested a new substance,“ the teacher said, „a new weapon. The results were interesting.“_

_„The kasha,“ Natasha said._

_„Yes, we administered you a dose with the kasha, but the proper treatment will be injected.“_

_The teacher covered the dead girl’s face again, shrugging._

_„The dose in the kasha was a test—not everyone can metabolize the new serum. The substance we administered you today is called R2. R2 has proven to increase strength and resilience in our tests. You should already feel a difference but once we will begin to treat you daily, your entire body will change. We believe R2 is our future. You all made good progress based on our training program but R2—R2 is a quantum leap.“_

_Natasha slowly turned around, looking at the woman she only knew as „the teacher“._

_„The unfortunate side effects are neurological. Some of our test subjects developed depression, anxiety, experienced panic attacks. A small number of our test subjects have developed paranoia and mental illness. They exhibited violent, destructive behavior, some as soon as a few days after the first dosage, but others took months to get to this point. It was a gradual process and it was hard to determine if and when a particular subject would break. This is why we developed this test. We have to induce fear on a previously unknown level in you to see how the serum affects your survival instincts. You made it—but your friend, Yelena was not so lucky.“_

_„You could have just sent her home,“ Natasha said, almost amazed at how her voice did not sound bitter at all._

_„No,“ the teacher said sadly, „once you come to us, you can never go home. Yelena knew this. You should too.“_

_When Natasha didn’t say anything she continued, „The Red Room was a necessity. We had to weed out the weak from the strong. “_

_„Yelena was not weak.“_

_The teacher tilted her head as she bestowed an almost amused look on Natasha._

_„She wasn’t strong enough. We have only need for the strongest. For the very best.“_

 

„We all have ghosts in our past,“ Natasha says,“I have learned to live with them.“

Loki is quiet for a moment, but she can hear him thinking.

„You know what I did to him, don’t you? He told you.“ 

Loki peers at her face and tries to sit up.

_Ah! Of course!_

„If you tell S.H.I.E.L.D what I did to him, they will understand. When you tell them how I attacked him, _raped him_ , while he was under the scepter’s control, they’ll understand why he panicked. He was merely defending himself—they won’t listen to me but they’ll listen to you. Just remember what he told you and tell Fury.“

Natasha sits back, examining the feverish glow in Loki’s eyes. 

„They won’t believe me either,“ she says softly, „I’m Clint’s friend. And now I am your friend. I'm not an objective, reliable source.“

„No. No," he shakes his head, „Fury trusts you. Or … maybe Bruce then. He could go to Fury and tell him.“

„Loki,“ she says patiently, „even if Fury would believe us, it would not change anything. S.H.I.E.L.D agents are monitored in regular intervals. We undergo very complex and specific psych evals. Being able to operate even when stress levels are high is one of our _basic_ requirements. Being compromised means we will be immediately withdrawn from active service.“

„Please, you must help him,“ Loki grabs her hand. In the background she can hear his heart monitor speeding up. 

„You have to calm down,“ Natasha says. 

„Please,“ Loki repeats. His teeth are worrying his bottom lip. Suddenly he comes to a decision.

"I need to tell you something," he says, looking up at her with his large, blue eyes.

He presses her hand against his stomach. 

„We need him now,“ Loki says, his thumb caressing Natasha’s knuckles.

He smiles a strange, catlike Mona Lisa smile and Natasha shakes her head.

„We?“ she echoes, even though a terrible understanding dawns on her. 

„Yes, we,“ he repeats, looking at her with hopeful eyes, happy to have finally found the right leverage. 

„I am with child, Natasha. Clint’s child.“


	22. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient and waiting for another chapter of this mess.
> 
> * * *

Bruce doesn’t look up from his microscope when Tony enters.

„I can smell your alcohol intake from here—just stay where you are and don’t come any closer. You're compromising my samples.“

Tony of course ignores Bruce and saunters closer.

„You’ve been down here for two days in a row,“ he remarks, casually taking in the walls of the lab covered with x-rays of a fetus „You need to eat and …“

He falls quiet, examining each image. Bruce does look up now, perversely curious to see realisation dawning on Tony’s features.

„Fuck, Bruce.“

Bruce pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

„I’ve been trying to understand,“ he shrugs, „to get my head around what is happening too."

Tony furrows his brows.

„How far did you get with that?“

Not far,“ Bruce says softly, „and that says a lot considering the things we have seen.“

„Fuck,“ Tony says. „This is not good.“

Bruce laughs hollowly.

***

_The bright azure hurts his eyes._

_„—but crowds unsettle me,“ Loki finishes beside him._

_Clint blinks the strange feeling of having for one moment, forgotten where and who he was, away. There is a brief flash of concrete walls, darkness, and he breathes in, trying to anchor himself._

__This is the past. A bad dream. Someone else’s life. You’ll make sense of it later._ _

_They are lying on a grassy hill, Loki naked and beautiful in a way no man ought to be. Clint’s hand is on his hips, his thumb caressing the hip bone._

_„I always liked crowds,“ Clint says, „When I was a kid, I liked to walk around in crowded spaces. Like markets, shopping malls. I used to—„_

_„—follow other families around, pretend that you’re just the youngest kid, lagging behind. You were really good at it, the families would only notice after hours. Then you’d duck away. You’d go home, to whatever place you were calling home anyway and you’d—„_

_„—I’d feel warm for a while,“ Clint completes the sentence. He remembers a time when Loki being able to repeat his thoughts angered him. Now it comforts him._

__Always. You’re always with me._ _

_Loki reaches out to run his finger over Clint’s stubbled jaw._

_„Your memories. I used them to cut you,“ he says softly, „but now they cut me. They rebuild me. I feel your memories as if they’re mine. Your pain, your loneliness, your anger. They bloom in my heart.“_

_Clint takes Loki’s fingers, entwines them with his._

_„Then remember the good moments too, okay? Let them bloom too.“_

_Loki presses his face against Clint’s._

_„Yes,“ Loki says._

_Clint closes his eyes._

_„I’d often look at couples and families and wonder if I’d ever _ever_ could have anything remotely like what they have. This togetherness, you know? Comfortable afternoons spent in a movie theatre. Family sundays at the zoo. Like in movies and shit people glorify being lonely but it’s …being alone like that, not only for moments or a day or two … but for years and years, it does something to you, fucks you up._

_„Once a few years ago I went to an Ikea store and watched a couple fight over the color of kitchen cabinets. They made up once they got to the bathroom displays and nearly split up at the checkout. Then I noticed I’ve been following them around, just like the way I followed people as a kid. I watched them leaving the shop, pushing their cart towards the parking lot, and they were already laughing again, and I knew with absolute certainty I would always be alone. No one would ever smile at me, no one would ever tell me about their dreams. No one would text me to ask me to go and buy some groceries. No one would ridicule my taste in furniture in a fucking Ikea store. No one would hold my hand. No one would crack a joke, a joke only meant for me and no one else. All these things. All that was not for me. I have somehow known for a long time of course, but in this moment it was clear.“_

_Loki kisses him. His lips taste so sweet. They taste of the summer sky._

_„But you see,“ Clint whispers, „here you are. I don’t know what this is, but it feels like home.“_

_„Then stay,“ Loki says, his eyes green and beautiful, „stay with me. Don’t—“_

_—go. Don't leave me._

When Clint opens his eyes, he can still smell the sweetness of Loki’s skin and feel the warmth of the golden sun. 

_Don't go._

He tries to remember. It was not a dream, he can only think with defiant, helpless grief. 

_This is the dream. I am only dreaming. I need to wake up I need to make myself wake up._

For a moment, the happiness and ease and hope in his heart burns bright, but then in the next moment it is already gone. 

„Slept well?“ 

Clint is on his legs in an instant, his back to a concrete wall, ready to lunge. 

Tony sits backwards on a plastic chair, a glass with amber-colored liquid in his left hand. The dark, medicinal scent of cheap bourbon wafts into his nose. A large round, crystal clear piece of ice is floating in it. With his other hand he is aiming a Glock straight at him.

„You look cute when you’re asleep,“ he says.

Clint exhales, then has to lean back against the wall. He feels nauseated. His body is too slow. He can feel his own heartbeat in his ears but Tony doesn’t know that.

„Don’t think I can’t disarm you within ten seconds.“

„Mmh,“ Tony takes a big sip, „the sedatives—they’re strong enough to put S.H.I.E.L.D. agents under for five hours. Designed for highly trained assassins and agents—they’ll slow your reactions down for the next days. You’ll have a hell of a hangover later. Sorry not sorry as the kids say these days.“

Clint lets himself slide down the wall, until he is sitting on the ground, and looks around, taking in his environment.

They’re in a prison cell. The ceiling is partly glassed so sunlight can enter. Thick steel concrete all around him. He knows sensors are embeddened in the cracks. Surveillance cameras in all four corners. He remembers he and Natasha were part of a team of eight who were locked in these cells for a week to try find out a way out of them, a S.H.I.E.L.D. test. The only one who managed to _almost_ get out was Natasha but she came only as far as two meters outside the cell door—then she was blocked by steelbarriers crashing down.

Which still doesn't answer the question why he is in here. 

He tries to find the last thing he can remember but the memories his mind comes up with are disjointed images of partying (Istanbul? Bangkok? LA? Paris? Amsterdam?), drinking, picking up men, women, fucking in alleys and remote motels, getting high, trying to burn all those thoughts of Loki out of his mind, the sickening longing.

He remembers driving for hours for days and nights, then suddenly swerving right and stopping the car and screaming against the wieldshield, hitting the wheel with his fists, railing for Loki to get out of his head.

He remembers waking up beside strangers, a tangle of limbs, a boy with pale skin and black hair and bright eyes in his arms. 

Finally he arrived yesterday, high as a kite.

He was greeted by his friends. He remembers two young girls were with him. They had momentarily broke through his bleakness with their lightheaded jokes. He has a memory of them speaking to Loki but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t remember their names, but one of them stared at him, during the flight to the tower. His mind reels back to the welcome he got in Tony’s penthouse.

Loki.

„Loki. He was with you,“ he says, his voice barely recognisable to him, „where… where is he.“

Tony looks at him, cocks his head.

Clint closes his eyes, trying to force more memories into his brain. 

„Loki,“ he says again, and for a moment he sees Loki’s smiling face, the sunlight in his brilliant green eyes and—

No, Clint stops himself. It’s not a memory. It’s a figment of a dream. It’s not relevant.

A muscle underneath Tony’s right eye twitches as he takes another sip from his glass.

He looks awful, Clint thinks. Tony’s eyes are haunted, almost feverish. Between the last time he saw him and now he aged ten years.

Something begins to whisper in Clint’s mind, but it’s muffled like behind a closed door. 

„What happened?“ he asks finally, conceding defeat. 

Tony takes another sip. 

„You don’t remember,“ he says and his voice sounds awful too, flat and monotonous and cold, and weirdly broken.

The images that flood Clint’s mind make no sense. 

He sees himself sitting on his sofa, fucking a stranger, Loki watching. Then the scene switches, and he sees Loki happy, smiling face, again, so close. He hears his voice—„I love you“—, he sees something bloodied and mangled on the floor, an awful mess of twisted and broken limbs—but that image is so blurry he can’t focus onto the details. 

„No,“ he says, his voice too loud.

He shakes his head.

„I … I don’t know,“ he says.

Tony empties his glass.

„Jarvis, play the video log,“ he says.

Above Clint’s head a concrete ceiling slides over the glass and the cell is for a soothing moment pitch dark before a pale blueish light flickers across the wall opposite Clint’s cot.

He sees the date of the log, the time. 

It was just a few days ago.

The video shows the empty bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room. It has the greyish quality of a surveillance video.

„Start with Loki and Clint in the bedroom,“ Tony says.

„Of course you were filming us, I fucking knew it,“ Clint snorts.

He sees himself from above, sitting in his armchair in front of the bedroom window. 

Loki enters. 

He cannot remember. 

It makes him sick to watch himself, to listen to himself saying words he cannot remember. The man on the screen could be an impostor, a complete stranger.

When the Clint version on screen the pulls Loki closer, there is something intentional and even malicious in his movements. Clint, the real Clint never looks like this at people. 

_(Are you sure? Not even at Loki?)_

„Watch. Watch this, it gets really good,“ Tony says, his voice still in this terrible flat tone, as if he’s being strangled from the inside.

He can hear himself asking about Loki’s box. 

What the fuck is he even talking about? What _box_? 

Then he remembers with a groan.

 _That_ box.

Loki got it from S.H.I.E.L.D., a silly little safe-like thing for personal items, regularly monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D. staff. He doesn’t know why it upset him so, maybe because Loki was so secretive about it, and Clint knew there was something wrong. The fact S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t react to his half-hearted request to take the box away from Loki or tell him about its content had irked him but he had never really thought of it too much. 

Except, apparently he did. 

It was _just_ a box, S.H.I.E.L.D. told him, for things Loki wanted to keep private. 

What really impresses him is how Loki manages to disobey him. He can see refusing him that openly and blatantly hurts Loki physically and … yet he still does it. 

So, maybe there is something to this silly box.

(Or maybe the influence of the scepter is weakening, a cold voice inside his head whispers.)

Onscreen Clint has given up on grilling Loki about the box. Instead he is touching him.

Clint can hear Loki’s moans. 

He averts his gaze, closes his eyes. 

The memory of Loki's scent hits him, a heavy, irresistible, sweet scent, messing with his head.

„Open your eyes,“ Tony says, and Clint obeys.

They’re on the bed now, writhing, and Clint can’t help but feel a pull in his body, painful and feverish and wild.

„Jarvis,“ Tony says, „fast forward to six eighteen.“

The image flickers away, and is replaced by the afternoon sun in Clint’s room. It is quiet, except for Loki’s whispering. He glows with happiness and although Clint is asleep, he continues murmuring his _I love you’s_. 

He is so fucking happy. 

Clint ignores the claw crushing his heart, the sense of foreboding. 

The Clint double on the screen begins to stir in his sleep and Loki's eyes and his smile widen—

_„What the fuck are you doing here? In my fucking bed?“_

In the present Clint flinches violently, the back of his head hitting the wall. 

He presses his fist against his mouth—the images on the screen pull out the images buried in his memory. They are like tides and tides, black and red. He shakes his head to chase them away. There is no air in this cell, and he gasps. 

_Nonono._

„No.“

There is a bright red stain of blood on the white sheet, first the size of a hand but then it keeps growing and growing. 

Clint cannot look away.

Loki is screaming, curled into a ball but he is not defending himself. Of course. He can’t. Even if he wanted to.

„Stop. Please,“ Clint says uselessly—of course Tony won’t stop. 

Where does the blood come from? Why is there so much blood?

Clint tries to look away, but suddenly Tony is fucking close, his breath reeking of whisky, and he clamps his hand onto Clint’s chin. 

„Open your eyes or I swear I will have tied you that fucking chair and your eyelids glued open, do you fucking understand?“

Clint says „I’m sorry,“ except what comes out of his mouth sounds like the pathetic whimper of a dying animal.

Loki is screaming and screaming and screaming.

Clint presses his hands flat against his ears. 

He sobs nearly with relief as the door flies open, and he can see Steve storming in, closely followed by Tony and Natasha. Steve tries to wrestle him off Loki. Clint, in his rage manages to push Steve off, but then Bruce turning into Hulk flings him across the room against the glass panel where he slides down, unconscious.

„Thank god,“ Clint murmurs, looking at his own lifeless form on the screen. 

His hands come away from his face wet with tears.

„He should have killed me,“ he whispers.

Hulk is carrying Loki, trying to stem his bleeding with his large hand—Loki is whispering, but in the surrounding noise it is hard to understand what he is saying—Natasha is taking charge, she calls in S.H.I.E.L.D. and together with Tony ties the motionless Clint up in addition to handcuffing him.

Hulk lets out a broken noise, a growl.

Natasha puts a hand on his flank, and he quiets down.

„Jarvis, isolate Loki’s voice,“ Tony says, “I want him to hear exactly what Loki is saying.“

Immediately all the other voices are gone. In the ensuing silence Clint can hear a broken voice, crystal clear.

_“Do not harm Clint. It’s my fault.“_

Finally, mercifully, the recording stops.

After a while Clint can hear someone pitifully crying. He is horrified to realise it’s him. 

He did this. It does not feel like his memory. A tiny part of him still hopes this is all a test, a simulation. He waits for Bruce and Fury entering, with charts in their hands, laughing, telling him, he did alright.

Tony looks at him, blankly.

„We found your drugs. We know what you’ve been taking. And Loki, he—he told us what he did to you, back then,“ Tony says.

Clint screws his eyes shut. 

„Kill me,“ he whispers.

„Can’t,“ Tony shrugs, „I contemplated it but we just don’t know what would happen to Loki then. He might die along with you.“

Clint presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. 

„For now you’re on painkillers, but tomorrow you start detoxing,“ Tony says, „if it were not for S.H.I.E.L.D. You’d be on withdrawal for the next few days but I guess these are the employee benefits. Rehab deluxe.“

„You want to punish me,“ Clint says, then laughs, „then fucking do it. Hit me. Hurt me.“

Tony only nods solemnly, several times, as if he is listening to a voice only he can hear.

„I don’t know if Loki is embellishing his account. I suspect it–he’d do anything to protect you in his current state of mind. We tried to order him to tell the truth, but his first priority is you, there is no circumventing that. He’ll tell us whatever he thinks we need to hear in order to let you go.“

Clint can't argue with that.

„Tell me,“ Tony says, „tell me the truth and we’ll work something out. We’ll find a solution.“

Clint shakes his head. He attempts to speak several times, and every time he feels like choking, so he has to stop. 

The video loops back to the beginning. Once more Clint is sitting in his room, watching Loki move around. He can see himself and Loki now from several angles. From above. From the front. From behind. From the side. He can see Loki’s eyes when he has his back turned to Clint. 

„We’re friends,“ Tony says, „I want to understand.“

Jarvis has silenced the video, but the largest part of the wall shows Loki on the bed now, looking up at Clint, with wide blue eyes, torn between disbelief and hope.

Tony is still looking at him too, with the same look in his eyes—that mix of disbelief and hope. 

„He is lying,“ Clint finally says. „There never was an incident.“

Tony blinks.

„What?“

„We fucked. One time in Germany. We were all rattled and tired, and I—I asked him to fuck me hard,“ Clint says, and he notices how his voice doesn’t shake at all. He raises his chin, stares Tony directly in the eyes, „and later I used this to guilt trip him. Told him how he did this to me.“

He licks his lips, swallows. He feels as if he might vomit any second.

„We can prove wether you or Loki is lying,“ Tony says after a while, but he sounds not very sure of himself. S.H.I.E.L.D. has their ways and drugs and methods to detect lies, but even they are not 100%, and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are trained to withstand interrogation and lie detectors. Tony knows that as well as Clint does.

„Is this the truth? And nothing but the truth.“

Clint can still take it back. They’ll eventually find out, once they analyse the voice recording, but it’ll take time. And even then they’ll have their doubts.

He snorts.

„Amen,“ he says, „nothing but the truth.“

Tony gets up, pushes the chair away, and it teeters on two legs, then falls over. 

„Fuck this. Fuck you. Fuck Loki,“ he says.

Clint laughs at that. At Tony’s blank face and his dark, puzzled eyes he laughs even more, then laughs and laughs without knowing why or how to stop. Something inside him is tearing him to shreds.

It takes him a while to pull himself together. For a long time they remain silent. 

„Go and have a drink,“ Clint says softly, „go fight the battles you understand, Tony. Where the sides are clear, where there is black and white, and you know what to do, who to fight. Where you can hate your enemies with clarity and love your friends blindly.“

Tony shakes his head at him, a look of brief confusion on his face, turns on his heels, like a ballroom dancer. 

„Fuck you,“ he mumbles. He presses the button beside the door and it glides open, then closes behind him. The video continues to play. When it reaches the end, it loops back to the beginning. 

Clint watches.


	23. AURYN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Apologies.
> 
> Tell me if you recognise the book Bruce discusses with his mum (if the chapter title didn't give it away anyway).
> 
> Btw, ILU.
> 
> * * *

After another week the braces on Loki’s jaw are removed. He can move his hands, the collar bone looks better, and he is allowed and encouraged to move his upper body. They think his spine is healing well, although there are parts that are stiff and thickened. 

He responds well to physiotherapy.

Bruce visits him every day, several times. (They have asked Loki if he wants other doctors, but he insists on Bruce as his main doctor)

Loki is not allowed to walk yet, the femors are taking longer to heal.

"Give it another week," Bruce finishes looking through the x-rays.

Loki lifts his hands and moves his fingers. Some are healed, but they, too are stiffer now. He can't make a fist yet.

"Careful," Bruce says immediately. "Don't strain yourself yet, okay? You're doing _very_ … good, but you still need rest."

Loki nods and smiles again, putting his hand onto his belly, caressing it.

"And how is she?" he asks, quiet joy lighting up his face.

Bruce looks away. 

He wants to continue fussing with reports and ticking boxes but he knew Loki would ask. His team advised to wait or not tell Loki at all, just get through with … the necessary procedures. Even Tony hinted at it. Why burden Loki with this—seeing he has no choice. Natasha did not partake in the discussion only watched Tony with expressionless eyes. Poor Steve seemed paralyzed by the dilemma.

Bruce needs to address it.

"We need to talk."

Loki's smile falls from his face, and alarmed he pulls himself up.

"I have bad news." 

It's better to be blunt sometimes: not brutal, but honest and straightforward. For some kind of news there is no good way to tell them. He might as well get over it. Bruce always had compassion enough to be able to make people feel less alone when they were confronted with unbearable truths.

"As you know yourself you were exposed to substantial damage," Bruce words carefully. 

_Substantial damage, my ass. Clint beat you to a bloody pulp._

„Your lungs were punctured, you suffered multiple fractures, and it took us over three hours to ensure that you can use your hands again. The serum—whatever it is—was potent, amazingly effective and prevented you from dying. However—„

The sudden rage hits Bruce from nowhere, and he has to stop, and inhale and exhale, before continuing. He can feel the Hulk awakening. 

„However,“ he continues, „your uterus was affected too. We managed to stop the internal bleeding, but the scarring makes it difficult for you to carry your child to term. The bigger the fetus grows the higher the possibility the uterus will rupture."

"Then I … I won't move. If I am really careful ... i’t’s not impossible. Thor can bring me more serum.“

Loki stops when Bruce doesn’t say anything.

„There is a reason why the serum couldn’t immediately heal you,“ Bruce says, knowing that Loki must know this too, „you are human now. Your body cannot be a vessel for unharnessed magic like this—“

„I need to speak with Thor then,“ Loki cuts him off, „I can tell him where to go. I can tell him of sorcerers, I can—„

„There is something else,“ Bruce says.

He takes a deep breath. 

„I don’t care if I die,“ Loki says, each word a plea, „my life is nothing. My child does not deserve to be punished for my crimes.“

Again, Bruce shakes his head.

„This isn’t about—„

„Do they think me still dangerous? Do they think I’d birth a monster, like in their myths? These stories are not literal, you must ask Thor. I understand you cannot trust my word, but surely you trust Thor.“ 

Bruce doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he has to say something to make Loki stop. He has to stop Loki from looking at him with this senseless hope and desperation.

"Even if we were able to save the fetus, this pregnancy would kill you,“ he finally manages and once it’s out, Loki blinks.

Then he smiles.

„You can keep me alive as long as she needs me to grow. Your methods are crude but I know you can do it,“ Loki speaks fast, „and as soon as she is strong enough cut her out of me.“

„Loki,“ Bruce’s voice sounds strangled and unrecognisable. His hands are shaking. 

He needs to control the rage boiling inside him, threatening to tear him apart.

„Something is wrong. I can’t say what is happening, only that the fetus is growing too fast. It is far … too big.“

Loki’s hands are on his stomach, a bulge is already visible—it should be impossible, within a few days of conception. 

„No,“ he chokes out. 

„I am so sorry, Loki,“ Bruce says. 

"Please don't ask this of me," Loki whispers.

Bruce wishes he had better words. If he could only say anything that would make sense. 

Nothing makes sense.

After a pause Loki says. "Her father will love her too."

Bruce rubs his eyes.

"Clint Barton will be in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison facility, after he nearly beat you to death."

God, Cooper would have his hide for his insensibility and ineptitude. She know what to say and how to say it.

"It was an accident."

"Stop!" Bruce yells, but then takes a few steps back, his hands raised—disgusted with himself at the very same moment for his lack of control. 

_I'm just like my father._

Loki only continues to look at him, composed, but his eyes are wary now, scanning his face for signs of The Other Guy.

"That," Bruce says, "was over the line. I apologize."

He fidgets, begins to play with a pen to distract himself.

"My mother," he starts, „she …" 

He interrupts himself, swallows.

"It was just this once," says Loki softly. "It wasn't a pattern. Agent Barton has never attacked me before, and when he did, he had reason to believe, I was doing him harm. Considering our turbulent past this assumption is more than justified. Then, he still perceived me as invincible, in possession of my Asgardian strength. In the moment of panic he forgot I don't quite have the same regenerative abilities any longer. And thirdly, thanks to Thor's intervention I am almost completely healed. My inconvenience lasted but a few hours."

Bruce clamps his mouth into a thin line.

"There is no lasting damage. Agent Barton had just completed a psychologically straining mission, he was exhausted, developing signs of PTSD. You _know_ that. You have analyzed his blood after the accident."

There's something akin to religious fervour in Loki's narrow face. His eyes are alit with a fanatical resolve to believe every word he says, no matter, how far removed from reality they sound.

"He nearly killed you. It’s on the surveillance video,“ Bruce says. He wonders if he should even say that. Probably not. It’s highly unprofessional. (Cooper would know, wouldn’t she.) There is fear in Loki's eyes now, because he has to unite the picture he paints of Barton, his Stockholm Syndrome defense with the truth that Barton beat him up so badly he endangered his child.

"He did not know at that stage he had impregnated me," Loki replies, and Bruce can see how he convinces himself with this answer. "He is still a Midgardian male, who has no concept of intersexed … Jotuns. He acted in self defense."

"In … self defence," Bruce echoes incredulously.

Loki breathes heavily, and it occurs to Bruce he referred to himself as a Jotun for the first time. 

There is no sense in talking to Loki, Bruce admits to himself resignedly. 

He can't abide the blue in Loki's eyes any longer, can't endure the excuses Loki comes up with to protect his master.

"When is the hearing?"

"Somewhere next week," Bruce replies, studying his hands. "The exact time and date isn't fixed yet. It was also dependent on your recovery."

"I see," Loki seems thoughtful. "Who will be present?"

"What do you mean? The Council, Nick Fury. Barton won't be there, if that's what you're asking."

Judging from the crestfallen look on Loki's face, that was exactly what he was asking.

"Do you know where he is?"

„He is safe,“ Bruce replies, „don’t worry about Barton.“

Bruce forces himself to answer Loki's small smile, mulling over what he wants to say next. 

"You never manage to look at me without getting uncomfortable," Loki comments after a while. 

"Cooper and I have been working on some approaches on your condition," Bruce begins, and although Loki immediately stiffens, he ploughs bravely on, "before she died we discussed a suitable treatment. I think it would make it easier for you to make the right decision about your life, your future.“

"I am not sick," Loki reprimands him. That was to expected. "I know that you, _all of you_ regard Agent Barton's and my relationship as unorthodox and I understand you feel uncomfortable, but it's not a sickness. I do not wish to be treated."

Bruce remembers Natasha's words.

"Are you trying to tell me, you're comfortable with your situation?"

"I am telling you, you cannot possibly understand my situation. The bond between Agent Barton and me is magical. But more importantly: it cannot be dissolved. Before—before this all happened to me–when I was still Asgardian, I refused to accept the bond. I fought it. I killed my parents. I killed Dr. Cooper. I nearly killed Býleistr. My resistance nearly destroyed the world—now I am able to accept the bond between Agent Barton and me. Finally I can be loyal to him. I no longer fight. It is a sacred bond.“

"If it is sacred, then surely our treatment won't sever the bond, "Bruce can't help himself to point out.

"Nice try, Dr. Banner," Loki says coldly, "I will not give you my consent. I require no treatment for my loyalty to Agent Barton. Maybe you should begin working on a treatment for its absence on your side? Agent Barton has saved your life many times."

Bruce inhales, pressing his fingertips against his temples to stave off a headache. 

„The treatment might help you. It would make your heats easier on you."

He continues talking to Loki but Loki keeps looking out the window and caressing little circles on his stomach.

Finally Bruce runs out of things to say, begins to repeat himself and he forces himself to stop.

Loki remains silent. 

When several minutes have passed, Bruce gets up, thinking this is Loki’s way of dismissing him.

„In the last days I was thinking a lot about Clint Barton,“ Loki says, „I was thinking about my life. Asking myself why I had survived. And when I felt her come to life inside me, I felt hope itself coming to life inside me. I felt I could build my life around her.“

Loki takes Bruce's hand and lays it on the soft swell of his stomach. 

„I can see her face. I hear her speaking to me. She is wild and unbridled and strong and her laughter is like rain and thunder in my heart.“

Maybe Bruce is imagining it but he can feel that life grow inside, a strange force radiating so much intent.

They remain like this, Loki looking absent as if he is listening to something only he can hear, holding Bruce’s hand. 

„There is no other possibility. You have asked Thor,“ Loki says, although he should know better—should know better than Thor even. 

Bruce looks at his hand on Loki’s belly, searching for new words, and Loki shakes his head.

„I don’t want to let her go.“

„I know.“

Finally Loki asks without looking at Bruce

„Will she feel it? Will she suffer?“

„No,“ Bruce says softly, „she’ll just go to sleep.“

 

Security staff briefs him about Clint Barton’s current state of mind. 

He has been watching the entire recording of that fateful night, even the long hours where not much happens apart from Loki touching him gently and whispering nothings. He watches himself waking up, confused, still tied to Loki, screaming and although he cries and yells and screams in his cell, pressing his hands flat against his ears, he does not turn it off.

He crawls underneath his cot, like a dog, whimpering, but still watches again, all from the beginning, with reddened eyes.

He tells Loki to run, as if he could change the course of events.

He begs his projection on the wall to stop, even through the third time he sees Loki’s blood seep through the white linen like a terrible, dark flower blooming.

After three days the medical staff has chemically restrained him.

Tony notes at some point Clint could have simply turned off the starkpad.

Bruce shrugs and leaves Tony in his study, surrounded by his holographic monitors.

When Bruce walks into Cint’s cell, carrying a tray of food and water, Clint is lying on the ground, clutching the starkpad.

He gently wrestles the starkpad out of Clint’s hands and turns off the video, avoiding to look at the wall.

He crouches down to where Clint is lying, pushing the tray across the cement floor, before his face.

„Drink,“ he orders and obediently Clint reaches for the water bottle with shaking hands and drinks.

Bruce wonders if he feels betrayed. He’d have every right to feel betrayed. Clint lied to everyone. His addiction risked missions and cost at least one life. He is always concerned with innocent lives, while Clint or Natasha, both trained assassins have been more cavalier about them. Natasha, of course would not have killed a man in sheer rage, would not have lost herself like he did. 

He wonders if he is capable of dealing with Clint. Natasha has warned him—she knows the entire situation has triggered memories of his father.

„I tried to dissuade Tony from coming down here,“ Bruce says finally, „I did not know he was planning to show you the video. I would have prevented it.“

„I deserved it,“ Clint says. His voice is hoarse, and he takes another sip of water. Half of it runs down his chin.

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. He looks away, then balls his fists. For a second he thinks he can sense the Hulk closely underneath his skin, ready to break out. Bruce closes his eyes, shakes his head.

_No, not now, monster._

„Do you remember,“ Bruce asks flatly. 

„I don’t,“ Clint replies. He pulls himself up to a seating position.

„We have analyzed the pills you were taking,“ Bruce says, „It’s strong stuff. You know that of course. These are prescribed to PTSD sufferers.“

„Stuttgart,“ Clint says, as a way of explanation, hoping his answer will suffice, “I killed friends. People I worked with.“

Bruce looks at him, doubt in his eyes.

„I thought until I learn to live with myself I need to forget who I am.“

"The incident at the Tsum in Sofia is still being investigated, but the recordings show you were at times erratic, at times overconfident and at least at one point your reaction time was too slow. A civilian was killed."

Bruce knows he is being unfair but cannot help himself.

„You know what it means to want to be in control,“ Clint says, "to not want to feel that thing inside you—the rage."

Bruce is not thrown off of course. He smiles for the first time since he’s entered the cell, tilting his head.

„Tony says, you lied to Loki about the assault. Or to Loki. Either way you lied.“

Clint shrugs, looking at the food in front of him.

„I was very angry, Bruce. Again, you of all people should know how that feels.“

„I see,“ Bruce says softly, then pushes the food closer to Clint, „well, you really need to eat.“

Clint digs into the food, hesitantly, mechanically. 

„You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, familiar with procedures and processes, standards and practices so I’ll save us both time and get straight to the point,“ Bruce says.

Clint chews, nods, then continues chewing.

„You know best what would happen to an agent who loses it, don’t you?“

„Yup,“ Clint chews on a soft piece of bread, „a quick death. There are certain places you can’t bring someone back from. Better cut your losses, move on.“

„You did not kill Natasha,“ Bruce says.

Clint is irritated. „What does that have to do with anything? She wasn’t an agent gone bad. I saw potential in her. I was right.“

Bruce laughs. „An agent gone bad.“

Clint finishes his soup, peels the banana.

„Your father,“ Clint says abruptly, „that’s what you’re thinking about, isn’t it.“

Bruce blinks. 

„Finish your food, I’m taking the tray with me.“

 

_  
„So this is why you like the book.“_

_His mother laughed._

_„Well. I… yes. It’s fiction. It’s a story.“_

_„I liked it.“_

_He was not lying._

_„What was your favourite part?“_

_„Hm,“ Bruce sipped his fanta, lying on his back, „maybe it's when the boy realises he is the hero of the book. He doesn't believe it at first, and only in the last moment he acts? He didn't think he could ever be a hero.“_

_„Ah!“_

_His mother was lying on the carpet beside him. He took her hand._

_„You’re so grown up,“ she chided him, but laughed again._

_„You like that I’m smart,“ he said._

_„Of course I do!“ she exclaimed._

_„So back to the book.“_

_„Okay. Right.“_

_She put on a straight face._

_„I liked how the story is about how imagination is good for you and you need it but if you live there too long you turn crazy. It's a cool explanation of craziness.“_

_„Hm,“ his mother hummed, „see … I did not actually like that. Like the idea of people being mentally ill is really simplified here. People don’t go just crazy. They are ill. Like someone who has cancer, you know? In the book it's as if they have a choice, but neglect to do the right thing and get punished. That's not true.“_

_„It’s a kid’s book,“ Bruce said. He picked the copy of the book up, looking at the cover, the snakes ._

_„Yes, but it’s important to make children think about these things,“ his mother said, „they become grown-ups. It’s harder to learn these things when you’re already grown up. If more people knew what being mentally ill really means maybe they would treat sick people with more kindness and they would be more understanding.“_

_Bruce fell silent, feeling his mood sour. He knew what his mother was referring to._

_„He is not sick,“ he said. He knew he shouldn’t bring it up, shouldn’t have said anything. These days the moments where he and his mum could be alone like this had become so rare, he should not waste them. And yet, every time she made an excuse for him, his blood began to boil._

_„I wasn’t talking about him,“ his mother said in a defensive tone, „but seeing as you brought him up, yes, he is sick. He is a good man, and he loves us but sometimes sickness will make you do things and sometimes it’s hard to see the world the way it is. I know you don’t understand but—“_

_„Nobody thinks he is ‚sick‘, mum. Only you keep saying that.“_

_He sat up, hugging his knees._

_„I saw you, last week,“ he said, hating the hot tears welling in the corners of his eyes, „I saw it. He hurt you.“_

_His mother was silent for a while._

_Finally he felt her hand on his back._

_„Sickness is not only a flu. A cough. A stomach ache. It can be in the mind. It can devour you and your ability to think. It can erase who you are … but you can’t blame sick people for being sick. We can love each other. We can hold on to our love. And we can hope that this love sees us through and in the end is wiser than us.“_

_She embraced him and he let himself comforted by her touch._

_„Once you’re older you will understand. I promise.“  
_

 

„I am not here to talk about my past,“ Bruce says.

„Could’ve me fooled,“ Clint only retorts.

He leans back against the bed, looks at the concrete wall.

„So. What do you really want from me?“

Bruce pulls up a chair.


End file.
